


who i am when i’m not around

by pixiepower



Series: the 8 signs of love [2]
Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Identity Reveal, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Relationship Advice, Secret Identity, Slow Build, acting major mingyu and art major minghao!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-25
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2019-12-07 18:10:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 32,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18238451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pixiepower/pseuds/pixiepower
Summary: “You know what you should do?” Hansol says, a hand covering his mouth full of appetizers. “You should write to that ‘Dear The8’ guy.”Mingyu raises an eyebrow. “What?”Swallowing and laughing a little, Hansol explains, “He’s a student at our university and this big love expert. Everybody writes to complain about their love life and this ‘the 8 signs of love’ guy helps them figure their shit out. So you write to him, and get advice. You follow it, and then this art boy can dick you down and the curse will be broken, and we can be humans again.”•“The 8 Signs of Love” is a smash hit at Kim Mingyu’s university, with anyone submitting their love woes for “Dear The8” to fix. Lately he’s been hearing from “Puppy Love,” a woebegone Mingyu hopelessly crushing on a pretty boy from his design-for-theatre class, but has no idea how to break through. The8 coaches him through the simple steps, and Xu Minghao notices a certain tall, dark, and handsome acting major named Kim Mingyu trying to merge into his lane.





	1. i’m lingering around you

**Author's Note:**

> rating will go up in later chapters!!! and eventually all the seventeens will be incorporated, bear with me! this is very much a passion project so i hope you like it!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from “love paint” by nu’est

 

Mingyu is staring, eyebrows furrowed, at the chalk menu above the barista’s baseball cap.

_How can anyone read this?_

It’s Tuesday. First day back. And his first design class hasn’t started yet but even he knows that this much scrollwork and this many over-embellished fonts on one menu board are an assault on the senses. This little outdoor coffee cart seems student-run, and the decor really is cute, but it’s kind of a lot at almost eight in the morning.

“Can I get you anything?” the girl behind the counter asks, voice tight like she’s embarrassed for Mingyu. Her nametag says _Yeri,_ in the same chalky lettering as the menu overhead. He briefly feels a little apologetic for criticizing the menu design. She continues, after a moment of silence, “Or…?”

It dawns on Mingyu that he might be solely a coffee-for-aesthetic kind of person, because he’s at a loss for what to order despite the numerous photos on his Instagram he made Wonwoo take of him last year, fancy glass mugs and floral walls and latté art at all those cafés. His Instagram is full of cozy sweater shots and pretty pastry layouts, but there’s an error message in his memory where the actual coffee consumption should be.

Glancing down at his watch, he curses under his breath. He really did try not to be late this time.

“Uh, can I just have ice water? Please? Sorry.”

The barista nods curtly, and, to her credit, does not sigh the deep sigh Mingyu was expecting, but turns to pour ice water into a to-go cup. When she slides it across the counter he grins apologetically, stuffs five thousand won in the tip jar out of guilt, and only half-jogs to his seminar classroom. He can’t seem too desperate to people-please on the first day, after all. He isn’t a first year anymore.

The professor in charge of this design for theatre seminar had recommended Mingyu take it, after Mingyu had declared his major of study to be acting at the end of last school year. “Broaden your horizons,” he said, “It’s good for actors to know every aspect of the work.”

Mingyu found it hard to disagree, so today, the first day of session, he shows up to a classroom where the chairs and desks are set up in a circle, all facing each other. Sure. Par for the course.

Sliding into a seat only half a minute before the hour, Mingyu wipes his forehead and tosses his bag haphazardly on the ground at his feet, trying not to breathe too heavily. He isn’t even technically late, he thinks, mouth struggling to find the straw of his ice water when he scans the room for any familiar faces from classes last year.

There are only maybe twelve students in this seminar, but when the attendance sheet goes around Mingyu can’t pick out which name or signature might belong to whom. A couple seem sort of familiar, but he was hoping for someone he knew well. Seokmin was going to take it with him, but the schedule conflicted with his vocal class, and he had to prioritize. Mingyu understands. The class seems to be made up of mostly third and fourth years he vaguely remembers from last year’s tech lists, anyway.

Mingyu flicks his eyes up from the list briefly when the professor clears his throat, only to lay eyes on the most beautiful boy he’s ever seen.

His face is kind of reserved and self-serious, fashionable light-blue coat tied closed even inside the classroom, and Mingyu wonders if he’s an international student, or a transfer. He looks sort of young, features soft and fine, probably not much older than Mingyu. Long (long, long, long) legs in black denim are stretched toward the center of the circle of desks, black boots crossed at the ankles, one elegant hand scrolling on a rose gold cell phone, the other helping him nurse what looks like a large iced coffee, black. Mingyu glances down at his ice water sadly, and downs it quickly, tucking the evidence behind his leather bookbag under his seat.

“Welcome to our Design for Theatre seminar,” the professor announces, and Mingyu has to work pretty hard to stay focused over the next hour, because the hands taking notes across the circle are pretty and diligent, smartphone tucked away like an actual Good Student (unlike the usual company he keeps, Mingyu thinks fondly).

It isn’t enough that this boy is cool and gorgeous, but he’s _smart,_ too, and Mingyu feels faintly like the class is ratcheting up to a dry thirty-five degrees every time this Long-Limbed Art Boy explains a design concept or describes an idea he has for the upcoming season, which the department announced features a series of student works themed to the five senses.

“What do you think, Mingyu?” the professor is saying, and Mingyu’s gaze snaps up to his serious face, taking a second to formulate a thought on the topic.

“Oh. Uh. Well, I think, out of all the senses, in theater a lot of attention is given to the visual aspect, and the sound design,” he says, pausing. That’s obvious. “But... in an immersive theater experience it could be cool to incorporate thematic elements of taste or smell, too, like if you do a play or something, to show setting and to suggest themes.”

Mingyu looks away from the professor and startles when he meets Art Boy’s warm brown eyes, and watches as he nods in agreement and smiles for a millisecond out of the corner of his mouth.

“I like that,” he says, and Mingyu’s stomach flips. “Like how almonds have the potential to create cyanide. You could use that if it’s a tragedy or a thriller, have a pairing menu that foreshadows what’s going to happen in the work.”

 _Exactly_.

Something primal in Mingyu instantly wants to drop to the floor and suck this boy’s dick, and the skin on the back of his neck prickles hotly, as though everyone can see his train of thought.

Mingyu stares at his syllabus until he can’t resist anymore, flicking his gaze up tentatively to where a fourth-year (Wheein, Mingyu’s brain supplies helpfully) and the professor are discussing what might be her submission to the student showcase. And if his eyes drift to the seat next to Wheein’s, with a half-consumed black iced coffee on the desk, well, who can blame him?

His classmate’s eyes are serious, and his face is serious, and his notes are serious, and Mingyu gets the feeling that he really cares about the subject.

Which, frankly, is very attractive, and Mingyu hates it.

At the end of class it takes Mingyu a few extra moments to shake his head clear and pack up his bag, but it’s worth it when he’s the last one out of the room. His walk of shame is brief, to throw away his water cup on the way out, but on top of the mixed recycling he sees, scrawled on an empty large iced coffee cup, _Minghao._

_Minghao, Minghao, Minghao._

  
•

 

“He’s wearing an honest-to-God cape,” Mingyu groans, draping himself across Seungkwan’s shoulders mournfully.

Soonyoung guffaws and turns his head at an unnatural angle until he spots the topic of discussion across the room. He lets out a low whistle and pats Mingyu on the back sympathetically. “Yeah, you’re fucked.”

On the other side of the gallery, Minghao’s slender fingers wrap around his equally lithe friend’s wrist and Mingyu tries unsuccessfully not to stare. He really is wearing a cape, stars and moons scattered across the blue expanse, and the sight of it twists in the pit of Mingyu’s stomach, a warm feeling tingling up his spine. This is what people mean when they say that men in suits are sexy, Mingyu thinks, and lets his eyes flick to and from silver heeled boots and up the long legs attached to them. Silver glasses perch delicately on the end of Minghao’s perfect nose as he points to a painting on the wall, and Mingyu considers that maybe death would be sweet relief from this hell in which he’s living.

When the professor said this art gallery visit would serve as an extra credit opportunity, only a handful of students signed up. But Mingyu almost knocked over his chair trying to stand after Minghao wrote his name on the sign-up sheet, so Mingyu thought maybe fate and destiny could be real, or even work in his favor for once. But so far it seems to be more of a cursed experience.

“I’m going to talk to him,” Seungkwan announces suddenly, voice cheerful.

“No, the hell you aren’t,” hisses Mingyu, and Seungkwan looks at him sweetly and also a little condescendingly, twisting his shoulders free of Mingyu’s death grip with a wince.

Soonyoung sounds bored, almost tired, when he says, “Mingyu, I can hear the cries of your horny heart from space. Please spare us. What is the point of looking the way you do if you’re going to waste it? We’ve all seen his Instagram. There’s no way a boy who dresses that well every single day of his life is one hundred percent straight. That’s already a point in your favor. You’ve been pining for weeks.”

“Well, you don’t need to stereotype,” Mingyu admonishes in a mutter, and Soonyoung rolls his eyes.

“He has a point, hyung,” Seungkwan says carefully, reaching a hand out for another glass of free sparkling water.

Because they’re hovering by the snack table at an art gallery opening, the way that poor students tend to do.

The fact that Seungkwan somehow takes great pleasure in Mingyu’s woeful crush on Xu Minghao _(Xu Minghao, Xu Minghao, Xu Minghao_ , a little chant in the back of his mind has been singing for the past two weeks, ever since he learned Minghao’s full name) seems to be a happy bonus for him, as terrible as it is for Mingyu.

“You know what you should do?” Hansol says, a hand covering his mouth full of appetizers. “You should write to that ‘Dear The8’ guy.”

Mingyu raises an eyebrow. “What?”

Seungkwan’s face lights up and he grabs Hansol’s arm. “Yes. That is a brilliant idea. I’m so glad I thought of it.”

Swallowing and laughing a little at Seungkwan, Hansol explains, “He’s a student at our university and this big love expert. Everybody writes to complain about their love life and this ‘the 8 signs of love’ guy helps them figure their shit out. So you write to him, and get advice. You follow it, and then this art boy can dick you down and the curse will be broken, and we can be humans again.”

“This isn’t the crudest version of Beauty and the Beast ever, Hansol,” Mingyu rolls his eyes, then pauses. “Wait, also, what the fuck? Why am I the Beast?”

Soonyoung laughs his buoyant laugh, and a short, well-dressed girl with a chic blonde bob glares at him, pushing past him to pick up a glass of sparkling water and turning sharply on her heel to return to her tall, modelesque, equally fashionable friend across the room. Soonyoung bows exaggeratedly as she leaves, but takes a step closer to Mingyu to leave more space between himself and the hors d'oeuvres table.

“Look, Mingyu. Of course you’re the Beast. It’s not a slight on you! You know you’re very cute. That is just the prettiest boy any of us have ever seen.” Soonyoung pats Mingyu’s cheek affectionately, and Mingyu grumbles self-consciously, but acquiesces.

Minghao _is_ very pretty. And smart, and cool. And Mingyu is tender and clumsy.

He’s the Beast. God.

They must look pretty dumb. Hansol is literally wearing sandals. (They’re _slides,_ he had insisted, which Mingyu knows _is_ actually better, especially paired with his high-end velvet jacket, but they’re still open-toed.) But Mingyu loves his friends, and they loved him back enough to go to this gallery opening forty minutes off-campus, under the guise of free food.

Also, Hansol’s boyfriend is an intern under the gallery director, and drove them here because he has the best car, so, yes, it was all for Mingyu.

Mingyu brushes crumbs off the lapel of his jacket, which is a little too big. It was supposed to seem purposeful, like, fashionably oversized, but he’s not sure that’s coming across. The turtleneck, at least, seemed to be a good idea, and he’s in all black, which Jisoo had said was a safe bet when Mingyu got in the car. The validation means a lot, especially from Jisoo, who never pulls punches. (Hansol, despite his footwear, only got an affectionate, exasperated sigh. Mingyu found the special treatment more endearing than offensive.)

But Mingyu thinks he saw Minghao’s cape in photos of a Valentino runway from like four years ago, and a distinct feeling like he’s out of his league settles over him. Maybe he does need help.

So he sighs, pulls his cell phone out of his jacket pocket, and says, “What did you say that guy is called?”

Seungkwan plucks Mingyu’s phone out of his hands as soon as the sentence leaves his mouth, and is suddenly typing furiously. “‘The 8 Signs of Love’ is the column name. But that takes too long to read and write, so most people just start with ‘Dear The8.’”

“How did you unlock my phone? It needs my fingerprint,” Mingyu says, aghast, but Seungkwan is waving a hand as if to shush him, and plows ahead.

“Write, ‘Dear The8, I am a very cute, very sad acting student, and I have been pining after a boy in my design for theater class all month. I have done nothing about it. Can you help me be less pathetic so I can tell him I love him and finally get some?” Soonyoung dictates, and Mingyu’s eyes go wide, head turning to make sure no one is listening to them.

“Stop messing around!” Mingyu whisper-yells, trying to make his voice not sound panicked. “Don’t embarrass me! He’s here!”

Seungkwan nods. “You need to be more romantic, Soonyoung. This could be true love! Don’t you believe in true love?”

Shrugging, Soonyoung grins. “Yeah, but I also believe in getting my friends laid. These things are not mutually exclusive.”

“‘Dear The8,’” Hansol interrupts thoughtfully. “‘There is a boy in my design class who makes my heart soar, and I want to swing around longingly in a broken-ass tower singing about how smart and beautiful he is.’”

“So romantic,” Seungkwan sighs.

“I need to confiscate your Beauty and the Beast DVD,” mutters Mingyu, face going red and prying his phone out of Seungkwan’s hands.

Jisoo’s voice cuts through his grumbling, “Have you guys even looked at any of the art or have you just been drinking all the sparkling water?”

Soonyoung sniffs, swirling his flute of sparkling water mock-haughtily. “I’m offended you have to ask, hyung.”

Laughing, Jisoo sidles up to Hansol and wraps an arm around his waist, using the leverage to grab an appetizer off Hansol’s tiny plate. “I’m done for the night, we’re winding down now. And you saved me some of the good stuff! I knew you liked me.” Hansol smiles fondly at Jisoo, and Mingyu smiles at them together, reflexively.

“Mingyu has been admiring some art of his own, hasn’t he?” Soonyoung says, voice teasing, and Mingyu’s soft smile drops into a glare.

“I regret ever telling you guys anything in my whole life,” Mingyu whines, eyes falling instinctively onto the opposite corner of the room, where Minghao and his slightly vampiric friend are talking closely by a painting of the night sky. It matches his cape; even just standing there, Minghao looks purposefully aesthetically pleasing. It’s kind of unfair. His friend gestures toward the snack table, and Mingyu freezes when Minghao looks toward them. Oh, no.

Suddenly Minghao catches his eye, and Mingyu prays it doesn’t look obvious that he was staring, choosing just to nod in what he hopes is a nonchalant manner. Minghao gives him a half-smile in acknowledgement, and Mingyu waves back shyly with both hands for some reason, taking his opportunity to hide behind Seungkwan when Minghao turns back to his friend. Mingyu is positive he looks mortified, because he sure as shit feels it.

“Oh, my God,” Mingyu groans.

“That was… pretty painful, dude,” Jisoo remarks, voice sympathetic, patting Mingyu on the back.

“But very cute,” Seungkwan adds cheerfully, and Mingyu closes his eyes and lets his forehead fall onto Seungkwan’s shoulder, groan continuing quietly.

Mingyu doesn’t think he’s easily embarrassed; he’s an acting student, after all, and it’s a bad business to be in if you can’t put yourself out there. He’s cute, and charming; he can be humble enough to admit that. Acting called to him as a field of study because it was fun to put a persona forward and be brave in that sort of way. Mingyu has always been an extrovert, ready to embrace the surprises of life and the people in it.

But he’s not _cool_ , or at least, he doesn’t feel like it, and his cell phone is burning a hole in his pocket, so he says, “Fine. But I can’t tell this The8 guy every detail, okay? My design seminar is really small, and I don’t want him to figure out it’s me. I can be anonymous, right?”

Hansol nods. “Yeah, he answers the ones that have cutesy fake names the most.” Mingyu makes a mental note to ask how Hansol knows so much about this romantic advice column, but for now he’s not going to bite the hand that feeds him.

“Uh, okay. ‘Dear… The… 8?’” Mingyu says, typing slowly and looking up at his friends for confirmation. They look at him expectantly, and he feels a weird sense of pressure. It’s especially weird to read it out loud, but he drops his voice and soldiers on. “‘I have a… crush on this boy in my class. He’s kind of serious, but he’s smart and attractive, and I get nervous when I try to talk to him even though I’m outgoing. We’re both art student types, and I want to get to know him better. What do I do to show him I like him?’”

Seungkwan nods approvingly, eyes only a little shiny with pride. “How are you going to sign it?”

Mingyu grimaces. “I don’t know.”

“Oh, my God, I do.” Hansol bounces on his heels and holds out his hand for Mingyu’s phone. Against his better judgement, he hands it over, watching Hansol type. When he gives it back, he’s grinning, face satisfied, and Jisoo laughs. “Sent!”

“What?” Mingyu yelps, only a little anguished. He looks down at his phone, the confirmation screen loaded, and feels the tips of his ears warm.

**_Signed, Puppy Love._ **

“Isn’t it perfect?” Hansol is beaming, but it isn’t malicious. “Because you’re just a big puppy! And you’re in love. Puppy love.”

Mingyu is still embarrassed, but can’t help but laugh and run his hand through his hair sheepishly at Hansol’s optimistic face. “Yeah, it’s good. And cute enough to get answered?”

“Yes,” Seungkwan answers emphatically.

“Probably yes, he means,” Soonyoung smirks. “Just wait ‘til Friday, that’s when the livestream is.”

“Livestream?” Mingyu quirks an eyebrow, feeling not for the first time tonight out of his depth. He chews thoughtfully on a mini wonton, considering that he generally might be in over his head most of the time. (Admittedly not a surprise, even for someone as tall as he is.) Granted, his friends get him in these kinds of predicaments on a semi-frequent basis anyway, so.

Jisoo tries to explain, “There are too many people to answer. His hands would probably fall off just typing all day, so he answers the best questions on a livestream every week. But he does hold a mini-session on Tuesdays where he’s just answering comments for a couple hours.”

“Just go on the website, dude,” Hansol says definitively, and Jisoo agrees with a hum.

Out of the corner of his eye Mingyu can see Minghao and his friend leaving, Minghao taking one last scan around the room with his (pretty, pretty) eyes before they go.

Something like nervousness and anticipation thrums under his skin. “Sure,” Mingyu says, because what else can he say?

 

•

 

Friday afternoon classes are the worst. No one ever pays attention, Mingyu least of all. Well, that’s an exaggeration — he’s normally attentive, but this computer-science-basics-for-arts-majors course is unflinchingly boring, and he figures a quick social media browse in an enormous lecture hall isn’t hurting anyone.

And anyway, Seokmin and Seungkwan on either side of him are doing homework for entirely different classes, so at least he isn’t alone in his inattention.

(Mingyu remembers briefly that he did promise to give Seungkwan his notes and scene studies from Introduction to Acting last year, though, since he’s taking it this year. Seokmin had offered, but Mingyu pointed out that it would seem a little suspicious if Seungkwan studied off his boyfriend’s scenes from the year prior, and Seungkwan had agreed. ‘Integrity is everything in the theatre,’ he declared, and Mingyu couldn’t argue with that.)

He feels a little antsy, and isn’t quite sure why. It’s like stage nervousness, or the tingle of a confession that won’t be resolved until he gets a reply. The advice livestream is supposed to start in ten minutes, and Mingyu needs almost that long to get back to the dorm.

Seungkwan leans over and whispers sharply, “Stop shaking your leg, you big golden retriever. You’re making my handwriting all messy.”

Mingyu grins sheepishly, but doesn’t apologize. “I doubt it. You have very pretty handwriting. A little shake could never destroy your beautiful handiwork.”

“Oh, flattery will get you everywhere,” Seungkwan replies.

Preening, Seungkwan tucks his pens away as the class draws to a close. Seokmin stands, dropping a kiss on the top of Seungkwan’s head, and stretches with an exaggeratedly loud yawn. Mingyu laughs, slinging his bag over his shoulder and glancing at his watch.

“In such a hurry, Mingoo?” Seokmin asks sweetly. “Hot date?”

“No, I,” Mingyu starts, taking a few long-legged steps toward the exit, “I wanted to see that The8 thing. The stream. You know, since you all decided I was incapable of talking to boys on my own and needed the advice of a probably equally clueless stranger.”

Seungkwan pouts. “You’re very capable, hyung,” he says placatingly, and Mingyu rolls his eyes but smiles anyway.

“Go on,” Seokmin beams knowingly, “I’ll see you back at the dorm after dinner.”

When he’s a good distance away, Mingyu waves and yells over his shoulder, “If you’re getting gimbap bring me home some!”

“No promises!” Seungkwan yells at the same time Seokmin hollers, “Spicy tuna?” Seungkwan gives Seokmin a long-suffering look but gently twines their fingers anyway. Sounds about right.

Still smiling a little when he slides into his room, Mingyu sits at his desk and opens his laptop, then stands, then sits on his bed. He feels weird, like he’s waiting for a job interview. He can’t get comfortable, and the stream is supposed to be starting any second. He settles for sitting on his bed, laptop propped on a pillow on his lap, and clicks the link pinned to the school social media page marked ‘The 8 Signs of Love.’

The waiting screen is up and a few comments are already starting to roll in. _Fourth-year boy, king of PUBG looking for a gamer girlfriend!_ followed by _if youre looking for someone to make u a sandwich youre gonna be sorely disappointed bro_. Lots of hearts and likes start pouring in as the viewer count clicks upward, and Mingyu’s heart rate is probably unhealthily high.

He has half a mind to click away when the video buffers for a moment, and suddenly a bright turquoise patterned sweater fills the screen, and a disembodied voice floats tinnily through his laptop speakers. “Hi, everybody! It’s The8!”

Mingyu stifles a laugh. The whole experience is a little ridiculous, but he’s in it now. Plus, if he’s being honest with himself, he is curious what The8 will say about his situation.

Normally he has no trouble introducing himself to someone, making first contact, approaching new people with high energy, but. Minghao is different. While driven and detail-oriented in class, he also seems kind of private, and if the way he hurries out of class every day is any indication, he’s probably just trying to get his degree and go home like so many other international students Mingyu’s met. Mingyu doesn’t want to get in the way of that. His ambitions and future are most important.

But if there’s a slim chance that he could get Minghao’s attention and make him smile that cute, tight-lipped smile, even for just the semester or maybe the year, Mingyu thinks it could be worth it.

The8’s voice crackles again, “Good afternoon, lovelorn folks! Thank you so much for coming by, I hope I can help make some love spring forth for you.”

That’s pretty sweet, Mingyu has to admit. He wouldn’t call himself a _hopeless_ romantic, but he’s been known to feel a little lightheaded when it comes to crushes. Everyone deserves love. Some people just need a nudge in the right direction. Like Mingyu, apparently.

“Okay! Let’s read some comments,” The8 hums from above the screen, presumably browsing the gently pinging comment section. “Of course! ‘Face reveal!’ Starting off early with the requests to unmask me today!”

Through the computer The8 laughs, and it’s a lilting giggle that makes Mingyu smile a little; The8 holds up his pinky in a virtual pinky promise. “I told you, I promise I will do a face reveal when I have a boyfriend, which is patently impossible,” he says. “I am far too busy with classes and the woes of you beautiful sad people to actually find a cute boy who likes me. So, I’m sorry to disappoint again! But you love the sweater, right?”

Soft-looking sweater paws pluck at the front of the busy turquoise, holding the knit fabric up to the camera. It _is_ a pretty fun sweater, 90’s vintage comfy-chic, and it goes well with the oversized acid-wash jeans he’s sitting cross-legged in. Mingyu gathers that it’s sort of the The8 uniform, if the comments are any indication.

The comments _also_ seem to lament that The8 is clearly gay, and it makes Mingyu wince a little to read the handful of thirsty comments from the many straight women disregarding that fact. But The8 must be used to it, as he proceeds anyway.

“Time for your submissions!” he announces, and his body leans in a little toward the camera as he taps the keyboard a few times. Little hums come melodically from the back of his throat, seemingly absentminded, and Mingyu finds them charming. The8 is definitely a soft and endearing personality, and it’s easy to see how people trust him so readily.

The8 clears his throat. “‘Dear The8,’” he reads, “‘I think my friend and I have been flirting but I’m not really sure. We’re both girls and we are very touchy-feely people. I think she likes girls too, but how can I tell if she’s into me that way? I want to go further with her, but only if she does too. Thanks, from Tofu Tofu.’”

 _Tofu Tofu._ Hansol wasn’t kidding when he said cutesy names were the norm, Mingyu thinks, leaning forward and resting on his elbows.

“Thank you, Tofu! On this one, I’d say the abundance of physical touch you share with your friend is a strong indicator that she desires the same intimacy you do,” The8 says, gesturing with his hands as he tries to figure out how to word his reply. “Physical affection and being touchy is one of the signs of love. But definitely ask yourself if she’s showing any of the other signs. Obviously single instances here and there do not prove that true love is blossoming, but,” he pauses, “In combination, it can mean there’s definite romantic potential.”

Mingyu thinks about this.

When you have a crush on someone, all the little pieces of affection you’re shown feel like something colossal. They all become kernels of love, hints in your heart that they could feel the same way you do. But Mingyu is no stranger to blowing these tiny suggestions of requited feelings out of proportion, so it makes sense that The8 is emphasizing the big picture.

It’s responsible. To make sure people aren’t just seeing what they want to see. It seems… honest, to Mingyu, and he can respect that.

“There are eight signs of love that people show each other, remember. That’s the whole point of this column,” The8 says, ticking the list off on his fingers as he explains. Mingyu doesn’t know why, but something in him spurs at this, and he digs in his bookbag for his agenda and a pen.

“Eye contact, you know, body language, all that close personal attention, is two. There’s remembering small details, and spending quality time together, and saying kind and affectionate things. Which is my favorite, by the way,” The8 says conspiratorially. “Six is gift-giving. And then the last ones are sharing the ordinary together, just normal stuff that’s more fun when they’re with you, and, lastly, declarations of love. The simplest and most exciting one!”

It’s not pretty or organized like Seungkwan or Jisoo would have it, but Mingyu has the eight signs scribbled in his planner after his homework assignments, if he needs to go back to it so as not to forget.

The8 claps his hands together, and Mingyu startles at the noise. He’s glad he isn’t wearing headphones, and silently thanks Seokmin for not being back yet. The room they share is a decent size, which is both a blessing and a curse; more room for two tall college-age boys, but their cumulative volume most of the time means the sound just bounces back into their skulls. It probably explains why they are the way they are, especially together.

But for now, The8’s voice is eager but soft, and even though Mingyu’s laptop is on full volume the stream’s audio isn’t traveling much farther than the edges of Mingyu’s bed. It feels a little personal, and that feeling intensifies when Mingyu hears The8 read out his submission next.

“‘...We’re both art student types, and I want to get to know him better. What do I do to show him I like him? Signed, Puppy Love.’” The8 coos, and flaps one hand as though to fan himself. _“‘Puppy Love!’_ That’s so cute!”

Mingyu covers his face with two hands even though no one can see him. He’s torn between wanting to throttle Hansol and wanting to hug him. Maybe hug him so hard his eyes fall out. Two for one.

“If I know anything about art students, and I like to think that I do, it’s that they love compliments. Start there!”

Mingyu tried, once, to tell Minghao he liked his pants.

He had been early that day, arrived before Minghao for once, and almost choked on his breakfast sandwich at the sight of those pants. Leather, or at least they looked it, and skimmed his legs so perfectly Mingyu’s brain sort of shut off. Which more than likely explains why, in his stupor, he ended up with a stuttered, “Nice pants,” instantly feeling like some lecherous lothario, and managed to accidentally counteract the too-forward compliment by tangling his foot in his bookbag as he tried to get his notebook out of it.

Minghao had stifled a laugh behind his hand. So maybe Mingyu does need to try again.

“My advice to you, my puppy boy, is to start showing your crush some of the signs of love! Proximity is key, so sit nearby in class if you can,” The8 says, and Mingyu scrawls in his notebook like he’s never taken notes before, trying to catch everything. That point is going to be easy to follow, at least, since their seminar size is so small. Every seat is technically near one another.

“See if you can find excuses to talk in class, and try to make plans one-on-one. In conversation, make sure you’re memorable, and find out if you have mutual friends! It will endear you to one another the more you have in common. Keep it up for awhile and I’m sure you’ll see an improvement in your relationship! Please let me know how it goes — I love to hear how things progress!”

The8 seems genuinely thrilled, and it’s a little infectious; so too does Mingyu. He reads and rereads his notes, The8’s slightly computer-warped voice wrapping up the livestream making for soothing background noise, and barely hears the door open and shut.

“Mingyu!” Seokmin declares suddenly, and Mingyu startles, knocking his laptop off his bed.

“Fuck!” he mutters, leaning over to reach for it without getting up, looking at Seokmin sideways as his fingers grasp for the laptop.

Seokmin at least looks apologetic through his sunny grin, and holds out a takeaway container with both hands. “May I offer you nourishment in your time of gay crisis?”

“It’s the least you can do,” Mingyu nods with a pout, then considers something. “Also, I had my gay crisis already. This is a crisis that just… happens to be gay.”

Seokmin’s laugh reverberates around the room, and it makes Mingyu laugh, too. “Haven’t we all, Mingyu-yah? Haven’t we all.”

 

•

 

Mingyu thinks his life might be like a cheesy drama, in that his Design for Theatre professor is secretly his guardian angel, put here on this planet to bring him good luck in love. Either that or he is seriously embarrassing himself and his professor is trying to watch him fall flat on his face just for laughs. Two very real possibilities, equally possible, because it’s the week, according to the syllabus, that the professor assigns a project. And when he assigns partners for said project, Mingyu gets paired with Minghao, because the professor is either an angel or a demon. He hasn’t decided yet.

But for now Minghao gives Mingyu two thumbs up from across the circle of desks. Mingyu can’t prevent a wide grin from spreading across his face, nor can he help the tingly swoop in the pit of his stomach. _Cute! So cute!_

What happens next is that Wheein’s show proposal for this season’s showcase is approved by the department, and, with the powerful charisma she has, she somehow ropes their seminar professor into allowing the class to help with the production for the project part of their grade, if they so choose.

“Everyone give our Wheein a round of applause,” the professor is saying, and Mingyu claps with the rest of the class, watching Wheein’s face light up with pride.

He remembers her from last year, when she dropped by their Introduction to Acting class to speak in hushed tones to the teacher regarding an upcoming show; if anyone were to do the writer-director thing among them, she seemed more than capable.

Their professor continues, “I’ll give you some time to brainstorm your projects. Due next week is your proposal and rough outline of the scope of your project. Remember, I need a model of any hypothetical set pieces by the final due date, along with your written analysis.”

Mingyu sees Minghao turn to Wheein and speak quickly with her as Mingyu gathers his belongings to walk over to join him at his seat. A faraway voice chirps in the back of his head, sounding something like _Signs of love!_ , and Mingyu swallows down his nerves.

Even if he didn’t already feel way too tall, the way Minghao looks up at him, all deep eyes through long eyelashes, when Mingyu stands beside his desk would add a few centimeters in ego alone.

“Hey,” Minghao says, calm voice balancing against something focused in his eyes, like he has a lot on his mind. Mingyu gets the feeling that there are way more things Minghao doesn’t say than ones he does.

“Hey!” responds Mingyu, trying not to sound overeager. “Kim Mingyu,” he adds, holding out a hand for Minghao to shake.

Minghao gives him a look of interest. “Xu Minghao,” he replies, soft hand gripping Mingyu’s all too briefly. “It’s kind of weird to introduce myself when we’ve been in class together for four weeks, you know?”

Nodding, Mingyu grins back. “Yeah, same. Uh, were you thinking about anything in particular for the project?”

“Actually, yes,” Minghao says, patting the seat next to him, opposite Wheein, and Mingyu takes it. “Wheein-noona was just telling me about her show, and I was thinking it would be cool to work on it with her. Hoping that maybe you wouldn’t mind, since you seemed to like the five-senses concept.”

He does, and it feels nice that Minghao remembers. In a field with a lot of big personalities, it’s refreshing to have someone remember the little things.

Wheein beams at them. “No obligation, of course!” she says kindly, and Mingyu is taken by her humility. “But I’ve really liked the insights you guys have offered in class and definitely wouldn’t say no to a few more helping hands!”

She hands each of them a stack of printed pages — her script, it seems — and Mingyu flips through his copy, skimming through the scenes. “That sounds really good, actually,” Mingyu says, offering both Wheein and Minghao a nod when he looks up.

“Oh, thank you!” Wheein is suddenly standing, and hugs them both with one arm each, over their desks. “I appreciate that so much! Not to exaggerate or anything, but if this show doesn’t come together I’m toast. It’s my senior project, you know?”

“You can trust us,” Mingyu affirms, and Wheein looks a little like she’s about to cry, but mostly determined and excited.

“I have to go, but the scenes that still need set design ideas are all sticky-noted! I’ll check in with you next week! Thank you!” Wheein slings her bag over her shoulder and darts out the door, phone in hand.

Minghao turns to Mingyu, and the way his bright eyes just laser in on Mingyu both unsettles and energizes him. “So—”

“What are you doing after this?” Mingyu says suddenly, interrupting. The voice in his head says, _Number four: Spending quality time together._ and _One-on-one time!_ and another voice that sounds more like his own yells in his mind, _What’s happening!!!_

Raising an eyebrow, Minghao coolly replies, “No plans.”

“Good! We’re going to the design room to work on the project,” Mingyu says decisively, hoping he sounds more confident than he feels, and wills the roiling feeling in his stomach to calm down.

Luckily Minghao doesn’t seem to notice, because he’s taken his phone out, probably to glance at the time. He does, however, say, “Okay,” so Mingyu can consider it a success.

And when they walk through the hallway toward the stairwell in complete and utter silence, Mingyu feels like he’s an astronaut preparing for a spacewalk. His existence next to Minghao’s in a space other than the classroom, where they’re sharing air and a destination, feels liminal, almost ethereal. Not to be dramatic or anything.

Mingyu glances over at Minghao as they climb the steps, and he’s still on his phone. There’s something admirable about the spatial awareness required to text and walk, much less go up old arts-building stairs while doing so, and Mingyu certainly doesn’t possess such dexterity. Whatever he’s working on, or whoever he’s talking to, must be important, anyway. The8’s advice can wait a minute or two to be implemented.

“Did you want to talk about your ideas?” Mingyu asks when they reach the old design room, holding the door open for Minghao. The handful of other students in the room seem not to pay their entrance any mind, especially over the noise of the electric knife cutting through foamcore in the opposite corner.

“Sure,” Minghao says, glancing up from his cell phone to gather a few supplies from the back cupboards. “I work in acrylic, mostly. You?” he asks over his shoulder, voice increasing in volume when he turns the sink tap on to pour water into a rinse cup for his paint.

Mingyu smiles. “Just sketches, I’m kind of out of practice. I’m… an actor,” he says. It always feels like an out-of-place confession to make, like he’s lying or bragging. Or, worse, making excuses. “The idea part is solid, but the art part will probably be a challenge.”

“How about you pick a scene and I’ll do another one, then, and we see how they go together after?” suggests Minghao, setting his paints down and picking his phone back up as he hops into the bar-style seat at the work table.

“Okay,” Mingyu agrees. He flips through the script for a bit, until a line jumps out at him.

_“Something glorious is going to happen.”_

The expectation, the hope, the feeling of personal responsibility balanced against unyielding trust in another person. Everything conveyed in the phrase is not lost on Mingyu, and something about it makes his eyes wander up to where Minghao is working. He’s created an abstract stage layout, bold strokes painted with a confident, heavy hand on his pad of paper.

It’s good, because of course it is, and Mingyu gets that familiar impressed-and-intimidated feeling again. But he thinks of The8 when he opens his agenda to a blank page, turning past his livestream notes, and thinks of _Art students love compliments._

“That’s really good,” Mingyu says, biting his lip in the vain hopes of holding back the endless stream of compliments he knows are ready to spring forth at any moment. He’s just… complimentable.

“Oh? Thanks,” Minghao murmurs, eyes flicking to his painting for a moment before returning to his rapid-fire typing on his phone.

Maybe he wasn’t pointed enough. Mingyu drops his voice a little. “You’re really talented.”

Not even a mumble in reply this time. Just little tap-taps on glass framed in rose gold. He wants to throw it down the stairwell.

Is it him? Flirting usually works out for Mingyu. A little insinuation in the tone, a toothy grin to underscore his meaning; there’s a pattern to follow, and he’s following it, but it’s not really succeeding. It’s not like he went to the Kwon Soonyoung School of Overt Sexual Imagery, and Mingyu thinks that if he did, he might be laying it on a little thick, but you can’t argue with results.

So he stretches his hands up and yawns exaggeratedly, knowing his raglan is going to ride up and show his stomach, usually a winner. But, nothing. He’s crashing and burning their best chance at alone time and it doesn’t feel great.

Mingyu takes a break from trying, sketching a bit to keep his hands busy, but letting his eyes rove over Minghao’s face while he works. Minghao’s eyes are sparkling as he scans his phone screen, and the paintbrush is dangling from his pursed lips, cheeks hollowed to keep it in place, just to torture Mingyu, because he’s a college-aged boy thinking about symbolism, and something phallic in a hot boy’s mouth is a little karmically unfair.

Mingyu groans, and it’s all he can do not to slam his forehead on the table. “Oh, my God.”

“Hmm?” Minghao questions, voice absentminded as he takes the paintbrush out of his mouth to reply. His phone-free hand passes over his art pad with the rapidly drying paintbrush, not really painting anything in particular.

“Oh, uh,” Mingyu laughs, feeling brave for a brief second. Minghao’s not listening anyway. “I just saw a cute guy.” It’s not untrue, just… purposefully vague.

This, finally, of _all_ things, makes Minghao look up from his phone, and Mingyu could roll his eyes in frustration. Minghao says curiously, “Oh?”

A flush rolls up Mingyu’s cheeks at Minghao’s tone, and he tries not to make eye contact. “Yeah. But... he’s gone now! Sorry for getting distracted!”

Minghao seems to consider for a second, and he catches Mingyu’s gaze. His eyes peer into Mingyu’s, and he hums like he’s thinking of what to say. _If Minghao can read minds, I’m done for,_ Mingyu thinks briefly. Well, he would have been a long time ago, anyway. Not much to lose at this point if he is telepathic.

“Are you gay?” Minghao asks softly, setting his phone face down on the table, and Mingyu laughs quietly in response to both the question and the action.

“Yeah. Sorry, I… should have been more subtle,” Mingyu settles on, and he means it. He runs a hand through his hair sheepishly, adding, “I’ve been told I don’t ‘seem’ gay, whatever that means.”

He knows exactly what it means. It means he gets to be cast as leading males in his plays, and it means he didn’t get picked on in school, and it means he has to have conversations like this a lot. It makes a sort of uncomfortable feeling settle in the pit of his stomach to think about. So Mingyu says, “Maybe I overcompensate, sorry.”

Minghao says, “No, no, I’m! I’m sorry. Me, too! I’m, also. Gay, also.” He has an unreadable look on his face, and his voice is hushed.

Mingyu’s half-endeared, half-concerned about the turn this has taken, and reaches out and gently rests a hand on Minghao’s where he’s got a death grip on his paintbrush. He feels Minghao’s long fingers loosen up a little under the touch. “Hey, it’s fine. You didn’t have to tell me.”

“I wanted to,” Minghao replies easily, and squeezes his eyes shut briefly as if to do a soft-reset on his brain. “It’s not a secret. My roommate knows, and my friends. The group of us… well, I think it’s true that gay people kind of gravitate toward one another,” he says.

Mingyu nods. “Same here. I think I’m the only painfully single one out of all my gay friends,” he laughs, then winces internally. Definitely didn’t need to share that information, or laugh that loud.

“I know how you feel,” Minghao says, and Mingyu tries to contain his disbelief, when Minghao sighs and turns his paintbrush over in his hands. “It’s… hard. To connect. I came here expecting to just be in and out, you know? Keep my head down and do the international-student thing and go home one degree hotter, or whatever.”

Mingyu laughs at the turn of phrase, and it makes Minghao smile, a real one that cracks over his face and lights it up like a firework. A lump forms in the base of Mingyu’s throat and instead of saying anything he raises his eyebrows, as if to tell Minghao to continue. He sighs again, beautiful smile disappearing behind a cloud.

“I don’t know. I like it here, I guess? I’m worried about what my parents might say if I tell them part of me doesn’t want to leave now. My roommate stayed, and they think he’s a good influence, but I came to Korea this studious kid, good son, whatever, and now I’m suddenly this gay artist, and... “ Minghao trails off, shrugging.

“It took my parents a while to come around,” Mingyu says honestly, and smiles wistfully at Minghao at the memory. “But things got better. Some cliches are true, I suppose. I’m glad you’re finding a place here. That was hard enough for me and I started here, you know? You’re already ahead.”

They fall into a silence for a moment, until:

“You’re easy to talk to,” Minghao says softly.

“Thank you,” Mingyu says, surprise in his voice.

Minghao nods and smiles that tight little half-smile, like he’s trying not to show emotion but it’s cracking through anyway. “Let me see this?” he half-asks, reaching for Mingyu’s sketch, phone forgotten on the table an arm’s length away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idol cameos: yeri from red velvet, wheein from mamamoo!
> 
> thank you so much for reading!! i appreciate you!
> 
> catch me on [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/jeongyeunnie/) and [curiouscat](http://www.curiouscat.me/pixiepower/)!


	2. this trembling heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from "위글위글 (wiggle wiggle)" by hellovenus, which self-indulgently is the song i imagine mingyu dancing to in this chapter.

“So, I did something,” Mingyu says, and it makes Hansol pause what feels like his fortieth replay of _Iconic Vines for Chaotic Goods_ (on rotation with _Iconic Vines for Chaotic Neutrals_ , because Jisoo is in Hansol’s room too and Hansol’s nothing if not accommodating).

Jisoo tilts his phone horizontally so he can look past it directly into Mingyu’s face. “Well, don’t be cryptic.”

Mingyu grimaces. “I made it sound bad. Right. Okay. Well, Minghao _is_ gay. First of all.”

Hansol beams in a sort of congratulatory way, then seems to think better of it and grimaces too. “Soonyoungie-hyung will be a terrible sore winner when he finds out he was right.”

“He didn’t _win_ anything,” Jisoo says, and waves his hand dismissively. “He’s just a hell-demon whose magic power is sex-related knowledge, and we don’t need to feed his ego.”

Laughing a little, Mingyu says, “What I mean is that The8 was right, and I feel like I have to follow up now. I spent quality time with Minghao for our project and showed him some of the signs of love, and now I have to keep going, but…”

“...you don’t know where to go from here,” Jisoo finishes. Mingyu nods and looks up at where Jisoo is sitting on Hansol’s desk, and he gives Mingyu a soft look. Jisoo is good at that, understanding people and sussing out what they need and giving it to them straight when they need to hear it.

Hansol turns in his desk chair to face Mingyu, and locks eyes with Jisoo for a minute. They seem to have a telepathic conversation, Jisoo’s calm face and wide eyes somehow equally as communicative as Hansol’s wild eyebrows and elastic grin, before Hansol finally looks down at Mingyu again.

“Hyung, you know we love you, right?” Hansol says, tone teacher-even.

Mingyu narrows his eyes in suspicion, but warily says, “...Yes,” anyway.

Jisoo kicks his legs back and forth and mutters, “How is your heart so big but you can’t figure out how to share it?”, which is a much kinder sentence than Mingyu was expecting. It takes him aback.

He looks at his feet in his striped socks, far away at the end of his legs where they’re stretched out in front of him where he sits against the end of Hansol’s bed. Mingyu loves people, and he lets them know. He’s always been one of those people with a lot of friends, always able to talk to everyone, the kind of extroversion that makes him right at home in theatre, in classes, in college.

But it’s like he crafts fake stakes for himself when it comes to love. Makes a fool out of himself trying too hard to make things work, despite his confidence and easy way of trusting people. Mountains out of molehills, in an internal kind of way.

Mingyu chews on the inside of his cheek and wonders why he trips over himself when it comes to cute boys.

(At least when feelings are involved. Not a week goes by where he isn’t reminded that the first time he really considered himself friends with Seokmin was after they made out at a cast party for a show they were in together. Sometimes Seungkwan sighs that he wasn’t there to witness it. Mingyu thinks that he probably didn’t miss all that much.)

“What do you _want?_ ” Hansol asks meaningfully.

Mingyu thinks for a moment. “I want him to smile at me, his real one where it makes his nose scrunch up and my heart flip over. I want to make out with him so hard my lips fall off. I want to have a terrible couples hashtag together on Instagram. I want him to know how smart and creative he is and that his brain astounds me.”

Jisoo and Hansol look at each other again, and Hansol mumbles something in English that makes Jisoo sigh wistfully, and Mingyu flops over onto one side and groans.

“Mingyu-yah, you really like him, huh?” Jisoo asks gently.

From his sideways angle on the floor, Mingyu stares at the sneakers scattered underneath Hansol’s bed and says nothing. His cheeks feel hot, and he’s concerned that if he meets Jisoo’s eyes he’ll just burst into flames.

Hansol says simply, “Well, okay. Love we can work with. Everyone loves a good romance, and you know who especially is the master at it?”

Mingyu makes a noncommittal noise that means, _Who?,_ but sits back up when a tiny voice in the back of his head reminds him. “Oh,” he says. “It’s not embarrassing to write back for more help?”

“No way,” Hansol says emphatically. “You think everyone just talks to somebody once and instantly knows that’s their person forever? It’s a two-way thing, hyung, and the reason The8 is so popular is because nobody knows how to fall in love. It just happens when you decide you can show someone how you feel.” Hansol’s ears are red-tipped, and when Mingyu looks up Jisoo is holding his hand. It makes a little twinge of bittersweetness zip through his heart.

“You aren’t going to mess it up,” Jisoo reassures him. “Don’t let fear hold you back, okay?”

“I don’t!” Mingyu insists, and means it. It was as though one day in grade school he woke up and decided to do what he wanted and what made him happy, and then he just… went and did it. That carries through in almost all aspects of his life. So why does the thought of telling Minghao how he feels now make his chest tight and his stomach turn over?

“Hyung,” Hansol starts, and Mingyu shakes his head.

“It’s fine,” he says, smiling toothily at Hansol to reassure him. “When did you get so smart?”

Hansol beams, and Jisoo laughs and reaches out to hold Mingyu’s hand too for a minute, and Mingyu does kind of feel reassured.

And as _Iconic Vines for Neutral Goods_ plays in his honor, Mingyu taps over to a bookmark he told nobody he made in his mobile browser, opens up the submission box, and lets the swoosh in his chest wash into the ether with the swoosh of the _sent_ confirmation.

  
•

 

If it weren’t for his godforsaken general requirements, Mingyu probably would have dropped his computer science class by now. He kind of thinks that Fridays should now be solely reserved for his emotional preparation for The8’s livestream. Five minutes is not nearly enough time after he arrives back at the dorm to open a box of crackers and inhale half a box of them from sheer nervousness _and_ open a whole website and sit on his bed and do nothing but watch a headless boy tell him how to flirt.

“Well, when you put it that way, it sounds kind of pathetic,” Mingyu mutters, and Seokmin laughs.

“I’m sorry for teasing,” Seokmin says remorsefully, and reaches out to pluck a cracker from the handful Mingyu’s clutching. “Death grip on snack food aside, you seem much less tense than you did before! That’s improvement, and I am proud.” It doesn’t sound condescending or sarcastic, and Mingyu feels grateful.

“I’m not tense, I’m… excited?” Mingyu says, and it comes out with the end turned up like a question, much to his surprise. He finds that as he says it, it’s true.

“Don’t tell me you have a crush on this The8 guy too.”

“What do you mean, too?” Mingyu frowns. When Seungkwan said he told Seokmin about The 8 Signs of Love, that’s not what Mingyu thought he was doing.

Seokmin swallows his cracker and grins. “Too, meaning also. Besides your Minghao.”

“He’s not _mine_ , Seok-ah. He’s just a boy.” Mingyu rolls his eyes and laughs through the prickle of guilt and embarrassment the thought of feeling briefly possessive over Minghao brings him.

Luckily the stream crackles to life before he has to explain himself any more, and Seokmin gets distracted by the comments in the corner of the screen. It’s kind of sweet, actually. There’s a sort of supportive feeling Seokmin has surrounding him, this aura that even when he pokes fun at Mingyu he’s trying to help him be better.

Seokmin shakes Mingyu’s shoulder excitedly when The8 waves at the camera with both hands, sweater-pawed in the usual turquoise, and greets the viewers. “Why do I want to say hi back?” he laughs, and Mingyu relates.

“I know!” Mingyu smiles softly, nibbling absentmindedly at the corner of another cracker, trying to be quiet so he can hear—

“Were any of you wondering how things were going with Puppy Love? I know I was,” The8 is saying.

Seokmin stage-whispers, “That’s you, right?” as if worried he’s going to speak over The8, and Mingyu nods, scooting closer to the screen, riveted. Seokmin’s hand tightens almost imperceptibly on Mingyu’s shoulder.

The8 clears his throat and reads quickly, “‘Dear The8, hi again! I have great news: Your advice was really helpful! I showed my crush some of the signs of love (through compliments, saying kind things, and finding common ground) and we spent some alone time together doing schoolwork.’ That’s great, Puppy! I’m so excited for you. ‘I’m starting to get to know him better but I’m not sure what to do next. Thank you for all your help, Puppy Love.’

“I’m really happy to hear that I’ve been able to help you with your feelings. It sounds like you’re doing really well at reaching out and getting to know one another, so my advice is to be confident and keep going. I know that sounds like a cop-out answer,” he laughs a sheepish little laugh, grainy and laggy through the computer, but it makes Mingyu smile down at his feet.

The8 continues, “But it seems like you’re doing everything well! If the signals are right, you can give off body language that shows your feelings, and flirting is really just artfully placed compliments and sincerely kind words. I believe in you!”

“That’s so nice!” Seokmin says incredulously, and turns to Mingyu, his sparkling eyes wide with eagerness. “I believe in you too!”

Laughing, Mingyu lets Seokmin wrap his arms around his shoulders in a warm hug. “I know, Seok.”

Harried makeout aside, over the last year it was really mostly Mingyu-and-Seokmin, in classes and in friendship, and to have someone so unwaveringly in his corner right away made the transition to university that much smoother. Seokmin makes everything less scary, easier, and Mingyu is grateful that he’s his best friend. (Seokmin went to vocal camp for two whole weeks in the summer and came back to school with a boyfriend, which Mingyu thought was just perfectly like him, and then it turned out his boyfriend fell into step with them so quickly, it was like he was always meant to be there.)

“That sounds like pretty good advice to me,” Seokmin says.

“Yeah, I guess it’s kind of silly of me to expect anything more specific when I haven’t given him any details,” Mingyu says bashfully.

“Well, you’re good at filling in the blanks, Mingyu-yah. You’re an open book, anyway. If Minghao doesn’t already know you have a crush on him, maybe he needs The8 more than you do,” laughs Seokmin.

“No, he’s the smartest,” says Mingyu. But it doesn’t make him nervous, despite how intimidating Minghao’s focus is. It’s fascinating, and deeply attractive. But. “I just don’t know if he’s looking for anything right now. I respect that.”

Seokmin closes the tab after The8 finishes the stream (and he does wave goodbye to The8 this time, endearingly) and boots up a video game. He says, “You’re too nice.”

“You’re one to talk!” Mingyu says incredulously. “Wait. What do you even mean?”

Shrugging, Seokmin says, “You somehow let your heart talk more loudly to your brain than your dick. I am distinctly not that strong, and I am in awe of you for that ability.” Seokmin laughs, turning back to his game.

“That’s generous, but thanks,” Mingyu says with a laugh in response. Mingyu’s not inexperienced, per se, but he just feels everything so deeply that it just seems more important.

After hearing from both The8 and Seokmin, Mingyu feels good about Minghao, more sure, and it surprises him. Pleasantly so.

It only takes a few moments for his heart to stop and nerves to come back full force when, as if being punished for his surety, a slightly ominous message from an unsaved number pings in.

_Is this Kim Mingyu?_

Mingyu feels a little panicked as he types back, _Yes. I’m sorry, who is this?_

_Oh! Sorry. Xu Minghao~_

Mingyu drops his phone.

Seokmin doesn’t bat an eye at his clumsiness, and he’s grateful for the (garish in a cute way) rug he bought Seokmin for Christmas last year protecting his screen. When he picks it back up, he reads, _I hope it’s okay I message you. Soonyoung-hyung said he knew you and it would be okay, but I get the feeling he could have been messing with me._

Biting his lip to hold back a grin, Mingyu types several messages in rapid succession:

_Astute observation._

_But this time he was right!_

_Sorry I forgot to get your number._

_For class I was just going to write our rough proposal by myself from what we worked on last time since I didn’t know what you needed me to do before class next week!_

What he gets in response is, _No, you’re perfect, thank you!_

(Mingyu briefly thinks that if he excuses himself to go jerk off based on that sentence alone he should get a free pass from the universe, because, really. He’s only one man.)

Curiosity piques Mingyu, so he says, _How do you know Soonyoung?_

_He’s… involved? with my roommate._

Mingyu snorts, and Seokmin turns away from his video game to look at him curiously. Mingyu waves it off and doesn’t elaborate. Part of him wants to keep this close to his chest, literally and figuratively. At least for these first few minutes. He can proceed with the inevitable unloading of his entire heart to his best friend a little later.

 _Oh, you’re roommates with Junhui-hyung?_ Mingyu says. He’s heard more than he needs to know from Soonyoung about the precise nature of Soonyoung and Junhui’s relationship, and while he doesn’t know Junhui personally, Mingyu feels intimately acquainted with some of his… attributes.

_Yes. I didn’t know you knew Soonyoung. What’s that saying? Small world?_

That’s… so cute.

_Yes! Very. [earth emoji]_

Minghao follows up abruptly with, _Oh, for class we agreed on the touch and taste themes for the set pieces, right?_ and God, Mingyu tries to be a good and professional student and collaborator, because it is a good idea, and he wants to help Wheein, but come on. But Minghao is all business, so Mingyu tries to get a grip.

So he says, _Yes, I think so! Wheein sent the production schedule to the class email, did you want to work together again sometime soon?_

 _Is tomorrow good?_ Minghao responds.

And Mingyu trusts his gut when he types, _Tomorrow is great :)_

  
•

 

Early Saturday morning, Mingyu gets a notification on Instagram. He knows Seokmin is already gone for the day by the way the sun is starting to peek through the curtains Seokmin opened before he left, the way he always does. (It’s meant to prevent Mingyu from sleeping until midday, but rarely works; Seokmin usually comes back from a cappella group with lunch and wakes Mingyu up then.)

 _Way_ too early on Saturday morning, Mingyu wakes up to the sound of his Instagram notification and, when he checks it, is immediately overwhelmed.

Tagged on an Instagram story is his handle, floating transparently over a brightly painted canvas, a gorgeous, serious face half-covered by a lens flash and — oh, God — long, beautiful, artist fingers splattered with paint. Typed below is, “Are you ready?” and a little frog sticker, and Mingyu has never been less ready in his life.

His spine is tingling a little but he types a message out, _You could have messaged me instead! You made me think I overslept! ;A;_

The only thing that could surprise him more is exactly what happens next; his phone starts to buzz with a video call request, and before Mingyu’s brain is awake enough to respond, the butterflies in his stomach take control of his body and press ‘accept call.’

“Hi — oh, did I wake you?” Minghao says, and he looks so pretty Mingyu might die. There’s a smudge of paint on the underside of his jaw by his ear, matching the paint on his hands.

Mingyu sits up and rubs his eyes, grinning sleepily at Minghao through the phone. “No. Well, yes, but not with the call. Why are you up so early?”

He thinks Minghao shrugs, but it’s hard to tell since the framing of the call is close up, collarbone peeking under a wrinkled button-up to just above Minghao’s eyes where his hair is falling artfully around his brows.

“I usually don’t sleep all that well, I kind of feel like I always need to be doing something. I...” Minghao trails off, eyes drifting to the bottom of his screen a little before snapping back up to the camera, the edges of his cheeks pinkening, and Mingyu feels confused until he catches a glimpse of himself in the corner of the screen.

He lets the little computer-filtered voice in the back of his mind tell him brightly to _Be confident!_ and pretends not to notice the way his own bedsheets have slipped down, stretching a little and running his free hand through his sleep-rumpled hair. “You seem like you have a lot on your plate. If you hang on a little I can be ready and meet you…” He squints at the screen and swings his legs out from the covers. “Wherever you are.”

Minghao is looking slightly off-screen when Mingyu gets out of bed, and if he imagines that the way Minghao’s voice goes up a little when he says, “I’m at the setbuilding lab,” is all because he’s shirtless, golden-pink in the early morning light, well, sue him.

“Okay,” Mingyu says, “I’ll get some clothes on and be there in like an hour?”

Minghao nods curtly. “Good,” he says, and it looks like he’s about to hang up with that alone, but he pauses, painterly fingers poised over the screen. A smile twitches at the corners of his mouth, like he’s trying to stifle it, and he adds, “I’ll see you soon. Bye, Mingyu.”

Being woken up by Instagram tag means that Mingyu has the perfect excuse to scroll through Minghao’s account, and it’s a lot distracting. Paintings, photographs that put Mingyu’s attempts at artsiness to shame. Selcas that make Mingyu feel very seen-through and wobbly. Plenty of outfit posts that make Mingyu stare appraisingly into his side of the closet.

If there was an Olympic event for getting dressed, Mingyu might medal. Not gold, because it takes him several minutes to put together something that feels appropriately avant-garde to wear to see the most fashionable boy he’s ever met, but Mingyu moves with silver-medal speed and a sense of urgency that carries him almost the whole way to the arts building in only the better part of an hour.

On instinct, he swings by the coffee cart and grins at Yeri, who raises both eyebrows when he orders a large iced coffee, black. Mingyu bounces on the balls of his feet and watches her face draw into something like recognition and maybe a little mirth when he says, “Oh, it’s not for me.”

“I was gonna say,” she laughs, and when she’s done scooping ice, slides a bag with two cookies in it across the counter with the coffee.

“Oh, I didn’t—” Mingyu starts, but Yeri grins.

“They’re for you to _share_ ,” she says conspiratorially, and Mingyu blushes but drops six thousand won into the tip jar when she turns her back to help the next guest. By the time she notices, he’s already almost to the building’s entrance, and when she hollers angrily at him from a distance he just waves gratefully in her general direction.

The ground floor of the new part of the arts building is open and airy and it gives Mingyu a minute to just breathe and look at the coffee and cookies he’s got in one hand, and for the little voice in the back of his head to say, _Oh, gift-giving is a sign of love, huh?_ He shakes off the spine tingle that reminds him that he actually didn’t think about that before handing over money at the coffee cart, and pushes open the door marked ‘SETS.’

Minghao takes one look at Mingyu when he steps into the setbuilding lab and instantly laughs, a beautiful, perfect, high-pitched giggle floating out of him that makes Mingyu’s heart do somersaults. Mingyu wonders where it was hiding this whole time.

“You should have just kept your clothes off if this is what you were going to wear,” Minghao jokes.

Despite being the one who said it, it somehow seems to catch Minghao off-guard, because he immediately ducks his head into the paint cupboard. When he emerges the tips of his ears are bright red and Mingyu has to hold back a grin. It also means he wasn’t reading it wrong; Minghao had definitely noticed his state of undress this morning, and that thought lets the smile fully break loose onto his face.

“It’s vintage.” Mingyu pouts, gesturing to where a bright pink fur coat is draped over his shoulders over his more practical black tee. “You don’t like it?”

Minghao presses his lips together and goes for his notebook on the big wooden work table in the corner. “Well, I didn’t say that.”

Mingyu grins again, shrugging the coat off, and holds out the coffee and cookies towards Minghao. “Breakfast?”

Minghao furrows his eyebrows from the table. “What?”

“I got you an iced coffee! You were up so early, I just thought you might want to catch a second wind,” Mingyu says, and pulls out one of the cookies and holds it in his mouth.

Now that he sees it under the work lights, Mingyu’s face feels hot when he sees that Yeri wrote _Minghao_ on the iced coffee cup despite Mingyu’s attempt at subtlety (and the fact that he never mentioned who it was for makes him wonder if he really is surrounded by telepaths). But Minghao is none the wiser, and looks up at Mingyu with a curious look on his face.

“Is this a cookie? For breakfast?” Minghao asks, reaching for the iced coffee.

Mingyu makes a noncommittal noise muffled by cookie. He peers into the bag at the same time Minghao does, as though he hadn’t been the one to order it, and Minghao’s hand rests on top of where his fingers encircle the coffee cup while they look. The moment lingers comfortably, until Mingyu holds the bag out toward Minghao, who snaps his eyes up to meet Mingyu’s and smiles softly.

“Thank you,” he says sincerely, and gingerly drags his hand (gripping the coffee now) away from Mingyu’s. “That’s… really sweet of you.”

It makes the edges of Mingyu’s cheeks feel warm, and he says, “Of course. What were you working on?

Minghao’s cheeks are hollowed, lips pursed around his straw as he sucks down a good third of his iced coffee, and Mingyu has to look away to maintain his composure. He turns back when Minghao makes an alert noise at Mingyu’s question and sets down the coffee cup. “Oh,” he says eagerly, “Let me show you.”

The canvas from Instagram is leaned up against the wall, paint almost dry, and Minghao takes a few long, purposeful strides towards it, hoisting it up by its back where it’s stretched over the frame. His arms flex a little pulling it up onto the worktable, and he tilts it into the light pouring through the windows to show Mingyu.

“From the painting I showed you the other day, right? I had this idea for the scene where she’s dancing, to make everything on set at that time infinitely textured.” Minghao’s eyes are laser-focused on his painting. Mingyu follows his gaze.

He startles a little when Minghao reaches for his hand suddenly, his paint-flecked fingers guiding Mingyu’s over the canvas to feel where the acrylic drips, where gesso is layered like a topographical map is swoops and peaks and valleys. Their hands glide over the features together, almost intertwined, and Minghao’s voice steadies on, quick and determined and captivating.

“Dancing is so physical, right, and it’s a physical manifestation of her manic mental state in that scene, and although the audience won’t be able to touch the set pieces I want them to be visibly overwhelmed by the texture. As though they can touch the scene’s emotion, touch the protagonist the way she wants her husband to value her, touch what we made together here. Make the craft visible and palpable.”

“Wow,” Mingyu breathes. His heart feels like it’s stuck in honey.

Minghao blinks slowly, eyelashes languid, and bites his lip up at Mingyu. “That was what I was going for, anyway,” he says, voice softening.

“Minghao,” Mingyu says, because it’s really all he can say.

“What?” says Minghao, lifting his hands off the painting (off Mingyu’s).

“How am I supposed to follow that?” Mingyu laughs breathlessly. “My scene is going to look like a sandcastle somebody stepped on at the beach compared to you.”

Minghao flushes, then, and lifts his notebook to cover up his face a little as he grins shyly. Which, frankly, makes Mingyu want to keep going, compliment Minghao until he’s pink as a peach and beaming that beautiful smile brighter than the setbuilding lab’s skylights.

“If you don’t let me help you do your scene I might die,” Mingyu says, probably too honestly.

Minghao laughs again, a pleased giggle, but lets his face drop a little to deadpan, “Well, we do get graded on this. I’m not really interested in explaining to the professor why I wasn’t able to reproduce the entire list of set pieces and also why my partner is literally deceased. I need a college degree.”

Waving a hand and frowning exaggeratedly, Mingyu says, “No. Not important.”

Minghao rolls his eyes, the hint of a smile still on his face as he reaches for a sheet of paper on the worktable, and Mingyu wonders why he let this boy inadvertently intimidate him for the better part of two months. He’s focused and determined, yes, but it’s because he’s passionate. He’s also funny, and sweet, and appreciative of the opportunities he’s given. Mingyu is super fucked.

“This is the list of all the set pieces Wheein has called out for the show. I asked her how she would feel about my idea and she just texted me a bunch of those emojis called ‘barking grey man,’ which I think means she likes it,” Minghao says, a hint of confusion in the edges of his voice.

He hands Mingyu the sheet of paper and he scans it. “This makes sense. The show takes place in virtually the same set the whole time. It would be cool for each scene to be separated temporally by just a visual set change,” he says.

“Right! Exactly!” Minghao says, and when Mingyu looks up his eyes are bright.

“Okay, then, let’s get started,” Mingyu says, and clenches a hand into a fist dramatically. “Hwaiting!”

“Hwaiting,” Minghao laughs, and smiles tight in the corners of his mouth as he takes another sip of iced coffee.

They lose track of the hours.

There are thirty-four set pieces that need replicating and texturing, which would be a daunting task for even an experienced setbuilder (or so Minghao says. Mingyu thinks maybe he’s being generous to spare his feelings, but it was a reassuring either way). Around the time the sun shines through the middlemost skylight, glaring directly into their faces, Minghao insists on being the one to order lunch, “Since you bought breakfast,” and Mingyu has Seungkwan’s girl group playlist blasting as he and Minghao sculpt and paint in comfortable nearness.

“An actor, then, huh?” Minghao says, screwing the lightbulb back into the table lamp piece to test it.

Mingyu shrugs from where he’s stapling the raw edge of the fur sheet onto the bottom of the ottoman piece. “I was a loud kid, tall and rambunctious. You know the type. I think my parents thought a spotlight would give me a healthy outlet for all my energy.”

“You seem kind of mellow to me,” Minghao says.

“I’m being a good partner,” replies Mingyu, giving Minghao a wolfish grin. “I don’t know if you’re ready for all of me.” The back of his mind where The8’s voice lives says, _Flirting! Confidence!_

Something flashes in Minghao’s eyes and he licks his lips challengingly. “Try me,” he says, voice pitched low with disbelief.

“You asked for it,” Mingyu says, and pushes up off the floor onto his knees, tapping his phone a few times to increase the volume on some sexy-concept song. Minghao’s eyes widen in concern when Mingyu lip-syncs into his staple gun.

“I draw the line at safety issues!” Minghao chokes out, and Mingyu laughs, setting it down to sway his hips with exaggerated seductiveness and rock onto his heels. Minghao’s ears are as pink as Mingyu’s discarded fur coat when Mingyu slides his hands up his own neck, thumbs running along the sides and fingertips pressing along his jawline as he sings along in earnest.

By the time the chorus rolls around, Mingyu is practically belting the lyrics, running his hands through his hair, when he sees Minghao’s gaze snap up to a spot just above Mingyu’s head. He turns around and sees a very bewildered-looking delivery boy holding takeaway bags by the entrance to the lab, and Minghao reentering his field of vision as he walks a little too smoothly to pay the kid.

Mingyu stands, still dancing a little, and rests an elbow on Minghao’s shoulder where he is pulling out his wallet. Over the music, he says, “You must not come to the arts building often,” to the delivery kid, who smiles awkwardly and shakes his head.

“Thank you,” Mingyu murmurs, mostly into Minghao’s ear, and shakes the delivery boy’s hand too vigorously.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” Minghao says solemnly after procuring the takeout bags, and while his voice is even and almost droll, his eyes are sparkling with something that makes Mingyu feel a little electric.

“I thought I was supposed to be the one to die,” Mingyu pouts, and tears open his lunch bag with his teeth.

“Nobody dies,” Minghao insists. “If one of us dies here they won’t let us come back, and we still have twenty-four set pieces to replicate. I am not doing that in my dorm. My dormmate Jihoon would find a way to redirect the adhesive and paint fumes into my bedroom and then Junhui would get superpowers, and I don’t think we want that on our conscience.”

“Thought about that a lot, have you?” Mingyu says with a laugh, taking a swig of water.

“You always need to have a contingency plan,” Minghao says.

Mingyu furrows his eyebrows. “In case things don’t work out?”

“In case they do.”

 

•

 

A week does not a routine make, but Mingyu notices that his life is easily broken into chunks; Tuesday, design for theatre seminar and write to The8 about how much he swoons every time Minghao smiles at him, catching his comment-answering session since it conveniently starts after class. Friday, watch The8’s livestream in all its turquoise-sweatered glory and recharge his energy in anticipation of Saturday, where he and Minghao will hopefully meet for breakfast at the setbuilding lab and work (and perhaps flirt) almost the whole day away. Again.

Fridays are for the boys, as Hansol once said, much to Seungkwan and Jisoo’s chagrin, but when it’s just Hansol and Mingyu he finds he doesn’t mind much. After The8’s stream, it’s video games and pizza. Cheesy is not just tolerated, but expected and accepted.

“Hyung, answer me this question honestly. Are you a serial killer?” Mingyu says, as snappishly as he can with a mouthful of pizza.

Hansol whirls around and gives him a quizzical look. Mingyu just rolls his eyes, pointing to his phone.

“Why would you open a conversation with that?” Wonwoo’s voice crackles through Mingyu’s phone where it’s balanced between his shoulder and his ear.

“Let me answer that question with another question. Who the hell _calls_ someone? On the phone? A telephone call? I’m gay, Wonwoo. A video call would have been preferred. But instead I received a phone call from you, a voice call, and it almost murdered me, and if you had succeeded that would make you a murderer, and Hansol would be left to deal with my beautiful corpse.”

Wonwoo chuckles. “But you have no trouble posting on Instagram.”

Indignant, Mingyu sets down his slice of pizza to hold his phone up to his face with one hand. “That’s different and you know it,” he shouts, and his pride lets him imagine that Wonwoo is very taken aback.

“Anyway,” Wonwoo intones, sounding very unaffected, “Remember your disposable cameras from last year you thought Soonyoung threw away?”

Mingyu gasps, “Yes. Why would you remind me of this? You know I was heartbroken for a month about it.”

“Because I’m your favorite hyung and found them today in with my chemistry gear.”

“Shut up! You’re my favorite murderer-hyung!”

“Please don’t call me that,” Wonwoo laughs, and its low timbre makes Mingyu’s phone vibrate a little in his hand. “Come get them.”

Mingyu looks at Hansol’s phone for the time. “It’s one in the morning.”

“You’re still up, though. I’m going to leave them on the kitchen table, just borrow Hansol’s key and come get them before you forget and they’re just trash sitting in my room for another year, film rotting in my desk.”

Mingyu says, “Film doesn’t really rot like that, and your desk is actually a good place for them if I’m not going to develop them right away—”

Wonwoo interrupts, says, “Please. I’m tired. Jisoo gave Hansol a key for a reason and while this is not that reason, I am invoking hyung privilege and former roommate privilege and saying you owe me for driving you around all last year. Please get them out of my dorm.”

“That’s cold of you,” Mingyu says.

“Then wear a jacket.”

And the call ends.

Mingyu mutters, “Least favorite hyung. Jisoo is my favorite now.”

When Mingyu turns around, Hansol is already digging in his pocket for his key to Jisoo’s dorm. After a moment he brandishes it with a look of triumph, and it has a fuzzy grey pompom keychain with bunny ears on it, and Hansol’s grin is entirely too suspicious.

“Anything you need to tell me about what to avoid in Jisoo and Wonwoo’s dorm? I beg of you. Speak now or forever hold your peace,” Mingyu warns, plucking the key from Hansol’s warm hands.

Hansol thinks for a moment. “Nothing you want to know,” he says.

“That’s… fucking ominous,” Mingyu grimaces, and Hansol salutes him as he tugs his sweatshirt on and opens the door to Hansol’s room, locking their dorm behind him after turning on the light in the entryway.

He’s been to Jisoo’s once, when he and Hansol helped him move in at the start of the school year, but he was the first one in, so Mingyu hadn’t met any of his roommates then. Jisoo spends most of his time at work or in Hansol’s room, since he inexplicably got assigned the single room in their dorm, so it didn’t seem like Jisoo had much to say about their roommates anyway.

But it seemed fortuitous when Jisoo mentioned offhand that he got assigned to room with Wonwoo, since Mingyu had none-so-delicately ditched him to room with Seokmin this year. It felt like karma was looking out for Mingyu by linking his friends together, especially considering their dorm was only a fifteen-minute walk away from his, albeit in the next section of the campus housing complex.

Mingyu knocks softly on the door to alert anyone still awake he was entering and clicks the key through the lock, pushing the door open. There’s only one small lamp turned on in the common area, and the light is very dim. It takes his eyes a second to adjust.

A pretty boy with black ripped jeans on looks up from his phone from his place on the couch when Mingyu ducks his head into the doorway. “Hello?” he says warily, and the intimidating boy who’s toying with the frays on the hole at the first boy’s thigh narrows his eyes at him.

“Uh, hi,” Mingyu says, “I’m Mingyu? Wonwoo said he left something for me?”

“Oh, he mentioned that,” says the intimidating boy, standing up and stretching. Mingyu thinks maybe he’s trying to display dominance, and it is working. The size of his biceps in proportion with the rest of his body is supremely intimidating, but somehow less so than the apathetic look on his face. “I don’t know where it is, though.” He shrugs, as if that was helpful.

“Thanks,” Mingyu says blankly, and takes a step into the apartment, shutting the door behind him.

“Well! This has been fun,” chirps the scary guy’s… boyfriend? Whatever he is, the pretty one slides his hand very pointedly down from the intimidating one’s shoulder to get a handful of his ass, and uses the leverage to steer them out of the common area into what Mingyu assumes is their bedroom. He grins with a devilish smirk, calling over his shoulder, “Nice to meet you, Mingyu!”

“Likewise?” Mingyu says, and sighs deeply once they’re out of earshot. College is so fucking weird.

Mingyu pokes around the kitchen area using his phone flashlight, apprehension crawling up his spine when he considers turning the light on. He feels a little like a raccoon pawing through the piles of exam prep and textbooks and sheet music and opened mail. Maybe Wonwoo put the disposable cameras in a box?

He thinks briefly of class and Minghao when his mind says _No sight, just touch,_ and he uses the flat of his free palm to feel around for what he remembers are five disposable cameras. His fingers brush the hard plastic and he starts to pick them up when he hears the refrigerator open in the kitchen and startles, clutching his chest instead.

The phone flashlight swings up and illuminates the kitchen, beaming into the eyes of the person who padded in. He swears (Mingyu thinks) in Chinese.

_Oh, fuck._

“Jeonghan, just turn on the light next time, no need for the dramatics. Goodnight, hyung,” Minghao mutters sleepily, clutching a water bottle in one hand and covering his eyes with the other hand, tucked in the sleeve of a very familiar, loudly patterned turquoise sweater, momentarily blinded.

Mingyu freezes, eyes sweeping over the scene before him and watching Minghao’s back as he retreats to his own bedroom, and holds his breath for fear he’ll return.

_Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck._

Recognition and jittery nervousness and extreme panic and the usual Minghao fondness and a new, strange, warm floaty feeling run through Mingyu all at once and he sort of wants to cry and sort of wishes Wonwoo had really murdered him so he didn’t have to contend with this at two in the morning. Or ever.

Because Mingyu doesn’t know if he wanted to know that Minghao is The8, and he kind of wants to pass out.

He scoops up the disposable cameras and makes a break for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idol cameos: yeri from red velvet, wheein from mamamoo!
> 
> also, if it’s not clear, jisoo lives in a room in a dorm with wonwoo, and his dormmates are seungcheol, junhui and minghao, and jeonghan and jihoon.
> 
> bonus note from me: the play i imply that wheein is adapting for her project is ibsen’s “a doll’s house,” which is a really thought-provoking classic play that could do with some modernizing by our favorite idols! just for funsies lol
> 
> thank you so much for reading!! i appreciate you!
> 
> catch me on [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/jeongyeunnie/) and [curiouscat](http://www.curiouscat.me/pixiepower/)!


	3. like i was expecting you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from “come to me” by seventeen

Seokmin’s voice bounces around Mingyu’s head, reminding him that Mingyu is _nice,_ and he does try to be, generally speaking. But Mingyu also has a petty streak a mile wide, so he freezes out Jisoo and Hansol.

 _YOU KNEW,_ he messages their group chat at two-thirty that morning, and then deletes their group chat altogether when he figures out that he can’t leave it, stomach roiling with frustration and confusion and betrayal. He tells Seokmin about it, and he knows Seokmin will get the rest of his point across.

(He also cancels on Minghao for Saturday. He receives _Oh no, I hope you feel better~_ in response, which makes his whole chest ache and tears prick the corners of his eyes, and he feels anger tingle down his arms into his goddamn _hands,_ and he doubles down on his pettiness.)

Jisoo, reasonable as he is, is not sorry, and that’s even more irritating. “You know it wasn’t my secret to tell,” Mingyu hears him say pointedly to Hansol through the wall. Cheap goddamn university dorm walls. Mingyu smothers his own head with a pillow when Jisoo says, softer, confessional, “I didn’t know this was going to happen.”

Hansol, to his credit, does sound a little sorry when his voice echoes around the corner, “I think I did the wrong thing.”

“You were trying to help!” Jisoo insists, and Mingyu rolls his eyes and stomps out to the kitchen, fixing himself the loudest bowl of cereal anyone in the history of creation has ever made, banging cupboards and clattering dishes. He uses Hansol’s preferred spoon and leaves it in the sink, and it does make him feel a little better, if only for a moment.

The rest of the weekend goes much the same.

On Sunday, Mingyu hides one of Jisoo’s shoes in the bottom cupboard of the pantry behind the pyramid of cup ramyeon and it takes him almost forty-five minutes to find it. And it’s not like he made him late for work.

Over the sound of his music playing from his computer, Mingyu hears Jisoo grit out loudly, “Seokmin-ah, come get your _fucking_ dog!” and tries not to look smug when Seokmin comes into their room to give him a put-upon look, the soothing kiss on his temple a little more morose than he usually gets. That’s humbling, and Mingyu mumbles a gentle apology, even if only for Seokmin’s benefit. But it doesn’t change the way he strides grumpily around the apartment.

It takes Soonyoung to snap him out of it. “Stop being an asshole,” he says loudly, sitting on Mingyu’s chest at six in the morning on Monday.

Mingyu gasps awake with terror, then rubs his eyes blearily while he tries to hit Soonyoung in the face with his pillow in self-defense. “Why are you sitting on me, demon? I try lucid dreaming _once_ and this is my punishment?”

“Stop being an asshole!”

“It’s only been two days,” Mingyu snaps, more awake now and pushing feebly at Soonyoung’s arm. “Jisoo can handle himself.”

“And he has been. _You_ have been acting immature,” Soonyoung says simply.

Mingyu feels very cornered. Soonyoung does this, shepherds you into an emotional place where you can’t run out, and makes you look him in the face and tell him what’s wrong, tell him why you’ve been acting like an asshole. Sighing, Mingyu flops back on his bed and covers his face with his pillow. Stops fighting for a moment.

A garbled, muffled noise floats out of him, smothered by the pillow, and Soonyoung gets off him, sitting cross-legged beside him. “What?” he asks Mingyu, gentler, picking up the pillow and setting it by Mingyu’s feet.

“Did you know?” Mingyu asks, voice small.

“No, Mingyu-yah,” Soonyoung says, brushing the floppiest part of Mingyu’s bangs out of his eyes. “Junhui never said anything to me about it. And why should he?” His voice is soft but firm.

Mingyu shrugs petulantly. “I — I don’t know!” he says, and winces at how pathetic he sounds.

“Right,” Soonyoung grins. He pushes on Mingyu’s shoulders to get him to sit up, and Mingyu groans but lets Soonyoung manhandle him.

“I know I’m not being a good friend but I’m just! Confused! And stressed, Soonie-hyung! And I’m mad!” Mingyu says, indignant.

“Then let’s just say that! Right?” Soonyoung looks at Mingyu, face cheerful and smiling. “We can come back from angry, come back from hurt. So let’s just say that.”

Soonyoung springs up onto his feet and gestures toward Mingyu’s door. All that boundless chaotic energy directed towards a goal, the way Soonyoung gets sometimes, is kind of motivating.

So while Mingyu still feels like he might cry (more), he opens his door and hollers at the top of his lungs, “Hong Jisoo, I’m mad at you!” into the rest of the dorm. He looks expectantly back at Soonyoung, who does nothing but wait with a grin. It’s a little uncharacteristic, to be the one who’s feeling complicatedly emotional while Soonyoung patiently teases out his feelings, but Mingyu is grateful for it.

“Yeah, I got that,” Jisoo’s voice rings out, muffled a little by the walls.

Hansol’s door opens beside his own, and Mingyu sees Hansol and Jisoo’s heads pop out like a cartoon. Nervousness flits across Hansol’s face, but Jisoo reads resolute, albeit tired. His big eyes seem deeper-set than usual, dark circles blushing purple underneath. A twinge of regret twists through Mingyu’s chest, and he chews on his lower lip instead of saying anything.

“Are you ready to be a person again, Mingyu-yah?” Jisoo says blithely, arms crossed as he steps into the hallway.

Mingyu sighs. “Yes, hyung,” he mutters, and Soonyoung pushes them into the living room, a hand on each of their backs. Soonyoung settles on the arm of the big chair beside where Mingyu is drawn up in the seat, and Jisoo perches on the couch, legs crossed at the knee, with Hansol curled up next to him. Mingyu feels a bit like they’re in a business meeting, glancing at the way that Jisoo’s hands are resting in his lap, and only loosens a little when Hansol stretches out, nudging Jisoo’s hands out of the way to rest his feet in Jisoo’s lap. He watches Jisoo’s hands unfold to rub over Hansol’s ankles absentmindedly, and Mingyu feels himself soften.

“Can I say something?” Hansol says, breaking the silence. Nobody responds, though, so he sighs, saying point-blank, “This weekend has been really shitty.” Mingyu snorts, exhale stifled, and Jisoo’s cheek twitches affectionately, but nobody really laughs, tension thrumming through the room.

“Yeah, it has. I’m sorry, hyung. I’m sorry, Hansol-ah,” Mingyu says, rubbing his hands over his face. Pettiness aside, Mingyu knows when it’s time to set his pride down a little.

Hansol tugs at the strings of his hoodie, trying to even them out, and looks up at Soonyoung, then Mingyu, eyes emotional even if he doesn’t ever really cry. And that feeling Mingyu gets sometimes, where Hansol looks so world-weary with wisdom and so fucking young at the same time, washes over him and he feels bad. Worse than Saturday morning.

Soonyoung pets the back of Mingyu’s head when the deep breath Mingyu takes in is soft and shaky, and says, “Right. Mingyu. You’re angry with Jisoo and Hansol.”

“Well, yeah,” Mingyu says, and tries to keep his voice even. “Hyung, you fucking _live_ with Minghao and didn’t say _anything_ about it to me, and, ugh, I know it’s not your place to say, I guess, and you didn’t wanna meddle, or whatever, but I went over there blind! Hansol-ah, you gave me the key knowing he might be there, and I wasn’t asking for you to do anything for me, or, like, tell me anything, I guess, but!” Mingyu takes another deep breath, adds softly, “I feel lied to. I don’t know.”

Jisoo looks a little admonished, at least. “Mingyu-yah…” He pauses, tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek, and frowns. “I am sorry. Honestly. I knew I was withholding information from you, and I knew… I know how strongly you feel about Minghao. I never meant to put you in that position.”

Hansol says, voice small, “It seemed like a really great idea at the time, you know? I got excited. You even asked, and I got all weird about it instead of warning you, or something.”

Soonyoung leans over, rests his head against Mingyu’s, and Mingyu reaches up to poke his cheek. Soonyoung sticks out his tongue, and it makes Hansol laugh a little. Eases some of the tension.

“But,” Jisoo starts, and Mingyu frowns. “Minghao is usually more careful about his identity. Hansol couldn’t have known he was going to be there, like that,” Jisoo says. Which… is fair. Mingyu knows that.

And it’s not about Jisoo, or Hansol, either, to be honest. It’s even less about The8, in a way, moreso about how foolish Mingyu felt sprinting across campus in the dead of night holding clunky technology from the 1990s, the image of a half-awake Minghao in the sweater he’s been asking for love advice for the last two months burned into his retinas. About how sweet and soft and sleepy he looked and how Mingyu was bubbling over with deeply conflicting feelings of desire and intrusion.

“I know. I’m sorry,” Mingyu says.

“For?” Soonyoung pries, and Mingyu rolls his eyes a little but looks at Jisoo and Hansol apologetically.

“Being an asshole,” Mingyu mutters, but he smiles despite it, lopsided.

Jisoo does laugh, then, and reaches a hand out for Mingyu. Mingyu stands, Soonyoung toppling gracelessly into his recently vacated spot on the chair, and lets Jisoo tug him into a hug. “You’re not an asshole. But I’m glad you’re done acting like one, okay? We missed you this weekend.” Jisoo murmurs, soft and low into Mingyu’s hair, and Mingyu nods in affirmation, tension evaporating out of his shoulders.

When he stands back up completely, Soonyoung claps his hands with finality. “Right!”

“Right,” Hansol echoes with a grin. “What, hyung?”

“Minghao is The8. What are you gonna do about it, Mingyu-yah?” Soonyoung asks, chin resting on his hand like that statue Mingyu knows.

And that’s an alarming thought to Mingyu. He has to _do_ something about it?

“I don’t think he even knows that I know that he’s The8. So, like… what do you mean?” he says, sure every feature is knitted together in the center of his face.

Hansol beams, and it makes Mingyu’s heart spread out warm from where it was clenched tight with sadness. He says experimentally, “You could… keep going?”

Mingyu sees Jisoo think about this, the quiet way he can watch the gears turn behind his eyes, and hesitates a moment to see a slow, mischievous smile melt over his face. “Hansol-ah, you’re so smart.”

“I feel like I’m missing something,” Mingyu says, squeezing in next to Soonyoung in the cradle of the chair.

Soonyoung is grinning, too, and not for the first time in recent memory Mingyu feels like decisions about his life are happening without him, and he’s joining a program already in progress. But his eyes flit from one face, to the next, and to the next, and they seem so on the same page, excited and almost devious, that something clicks for Mingyu.

“Wait,” he says, syrup-slow. “You don’t mean…”

Hansol and Soonyoung laugh, the cacophony of it kind but a little chaotic nonetheless, and Mingyu’s eyes widen as the realization hits him like an anvil.

“Wait,” he repeats. “What I’m hearing… is that I’m going to go against every single self-preservation instinct I have. And I’m going to basically tell The8 that I have a crush on Minghao. What I am going to do is drop grand-piano-sized hints, _to_ Minghao, that the person I have a fucking life-changingly deep crush on… is Minghao. Am I hearing that? Do I have that right? Am I speaking like a human person?”

The way Soonyoung cackles and wraps all of his limbs around Mingyu tells him all he needs to know, and Mingyu feels every cell in his body vibrate with nerves.

Hansol smiles, loose and easy, but his eyes meet Mingyu’s seriously. “Only if you want to,” he says.

Mingyu hums. He’s kind of tired of overthinking, letting himself get in the way of his own life. He wants things to be simple, and easy, and fun. He wants to keep saying the things that come to mind, and wants to keep making Minghao blush, pretty and shy, under compliments, and wants to confess-without-confessing. It sounds kind of good, actually.

So not for the first time about this kind of thing, Mingyu says, “Sure, Vernonie,” and smiles easily at his friends.

 

•

 

Tuesday morning, Mingyu almost melts into the cracks in the linoleum floor when he walks into class and sees Minghao’s eyes pull into a smile that doesn’t reach his lips fully. (Seungkwan told him to stop eating crumbs and wait for a whole cake, which at first had sounded like his usual good, responsible advice, but the effect was lost a little after he pinched Seokmin’s ass as punctuation.)

The8’s voice — _Minghao’s voice,_ he mentally corrects himself, and it sends him staring into space for a moment — rings in his head, a sweetly intoned _Sit next to each other in class!,_ and Mingyu makes up his mind. He hopes Wheein-noona will forgive him as he slides into the seat next to Minghao, and tries not to read too much into the way the corner of Minghao’s mouth crooks up even as he doesn’t look up, even as he _tap-taps_ against his phone screen.

“I’m glad to see you,” Mingyu murmurs.

Minghao looks up, then, smiling in earnest. “Me too,” he says, and opens his mouth to say something else, but is interrupted by the professor, and then the discussion of everyone’s project proposals picks up, voices clamoring over each other as theatre builds itself in front of them.

At some point in the past twenty-four hours Mingyu made some connections, not-so-instant replays of _I thought he was being rude but he was busy being The8_ that, in hindsight, seem hard to miss. As an actor, he feels like he should have seen the signs.

There’s a sense of regret that he thought so poorly of himself in those moments, exacerbated by Soonyoung’s insistence that, “Uh, Mingyu-yah, he _was_ being rude. Why would he say he wasn’t busy and go with you to work on your project if he was otherwise preoccupied?”

Jisoo’s answer: “Plausible deniability of his secret identity. Like… an alibi.”

Mingyu’s answer: “Well, I didn’t exactly _ask_ him so much as told him.”

Seokmin’s answer: “He just wanted to spend time with you, even with having to split his attention.”

So, jury’s out.

 

•

 

It’s a little different now. The same buzz of excitement is there, but there’s something that hits a flat, guilty note in Mingyu, maybe something a little voyeuristic, when he tunes in every Friday to watch Minghao be The8 and read out loud all the ways Mingyu likes him.

That feeling swoops in tandem with the warm buzz he gets when Minghao laughs through the computer, the sound that Mingyu feels in the tips of his ears and the bottom of his feet that reminds him how _sweet_ it is despite the fuzzy crunch of two computers’ worth of distortion. And even if nothing were to happen, he thinks, it would be worth it for Minghao to know that he’s beautiful and remarkable, even for a moment.

Mingyu watches The8’s fingers, _Minghao’s fingers, perfect hands, how could he have missed it,_ dance over his knee with excitement and goodwill as he reads, “Another message from our Puppy Love! ‘Dear The8, Thank you for your advice, as always. I’ve started spending more and more time with my crush, and he’s so smart and creative, I never get tired of hearing about his passions. I would love to know what your favorite compliments to receive are, since you said you’re an art student, too. Maybe that will help me win him over! Signed, Puppy Love.’”

Mingyu relishes the soft, happy way Minghao sighs. “Honestly, Puppy Love? That’s it, right there. Just knowing that your hard work is paying off, that you’re going in the right direction and your passion shines through in the art you make… there’s nothing like it. Hearing it from your professors, or your peers, or a cute boy, you know…” Minghao trails off and gathers his fingers together in his lap like a flower, like he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

“It’s everything.”

Saturday, Mingyu beats Minghao to the setbuilding lab and only bounds up to meet him at the door a little bit, overexcited and bearing iced coffee.

“Down, boy,” Minghao laughs, and Mingyu grins right through his embarrassment, rocking back on his heels to let out some of his energy. Minghao’s smile goes tiny and tight as he accepts the coffee, and it reads almost like a smirk once he gets the straw in his mouth. His eyes are piercing, unyielding, and Mingyu feels a little like a critic is watching his first star turn. He has to make it worth the ticket.

“I couldn’t sleep last night, so I came in early this morning and organized a little bit. Cleaned, you know? Get us a fresh start for the day.”

Minghao shakes his head with a smile and sets down his coffee, stretching both arms above his head. The gesture makes his arms and hands look like they could stretch through the skylights of the lab to pluck clouds from the sky, especially in Minghao’s light-blue chambray shirt.

“We’re just going to art it all up again,” he says, reaching for the prop list where Mingyu had tacked it up on the wall above their supplies.

“Please don’t tell me you’re the kind of person who says, ‘Why make my bed? I’m just going to sleep in it again tonight,’” Minghao says with a groan.

“Oh, no, I like doing that. It’s really rewarding,” Minghao says, smirking in earnest this time, voice smooth and casual when he adds, “The best part of making your bed is ruining it.”

Mingyu drops to his knees to rummage around in the supply trunk by their workspace, trying to mask the look on his face that he knows reads _absolutely desperate for you to ruin me in your bed,_ and the mere thought of it distracts him enough that he hits his head on a swingout lamp on his way back up. Karma again, he thinks, but when his hand flies up to check for wounds his fingers greet cool slender ones already running gently over the crown of Mingyu’s skull.

“Clumsy,” Minghao murmurs faintly, voice tinted with a smile, and Mingyu remembers how he had hoped for one brief second to have the upper hand today. Well, fuck that, he supposes.

(It fits more easily than Mingyu thought it would, reconciling The8 with Minghao.)

To most, Minghao seems to put off the impression that he’s another private, cliquey, way-too-dressed-up-for-his-8-a.m.-classes sophomore-year-transfer international student trying to get his degree and go home as quickly as possible. And bits and pieces of that narrative fit, in the same way that you can squeeze the wrong puzzle piece into place but you know somehow it doesn’t really complete the picture.

At some point over the weeks, Mingyu stops dressing to make Minghao laugh and starts dressing like he means it. Workshop clothes stop being ridiculous and start being practical, sturdy jeans and slim-cut tees, and he wears his favorite brown jacket to class. The first time he walks in with it on Minghao gives him this sort of appraising look, and Mingyu feels comfortable in his skin.

“Where were you hiding this?” Minghao is leaning over, hand resting on Mingyu’s desk.

“In my dresser,” Mingyu laughs.

Minghao rolls his eyes goodnaturedly. “Right.”

“I mean,” Mingyu says, gesturing vaguely to Minghao. “I had to step it up. Every day you look so…” He pauses, but decides to leave it at that, lopsided smile beaming down at his desk where Minghao’s hand rests.

Minghao raises an eyebrow, but the corners of his mouth quirk up. “I look so?”

Called out, Mingyu says simply and earnestly, “Good. You look _so_ good. You’re really going to fish for compliments when you look like that?”

Minghao blinks, big deer eyes, and turns pink. Mingyu’s stomach feels like it’s taking off into the sky without him. He turns back to his own notebook, and Mingyu catches the way he misspells the next word he writes, skipping a character, scribbling it out and trying it again, more carefully, strokes firm as if to convince himself of something.

It makes Mingyu feel deeply endeared, and prods his heart with something fond, reminding him of Minghao’s voice, hands mottled with woodstain in the design lab, days ago:

“The proudest of myself I’ve ever been?”

“Yeah,” Mingyu had said, keeping his voice neutral as he buffed the wet half of the woodstain into the grooves of the sculpted desk.

Thoughtful, Minghao had hummed. “My Korean has improved a lot. When I first came here I felt like I had so much to say but no way to say it. I painted, and painted, and took so many photos because I was pent up with thoughts and couldn’t express them. But now, being able to share what I think and what I feel? I’m proud of that.”

He had looked up and met eyes with Mingyu, whose hands had stopped moving maybe a centimeter from Minghao’s. Minghao had smiled, eyes soulful, and Mingyu felt the pride radiate from him.

Minghao works hard — too hard, sometimes, — focused and dedicated and particular. Minghao isn’t withholding or self-serious, and he especially isn’t intimidating like Mingyu once thought. The truth is, he just always wants things to turn out well so he works to make it happen, because that’s how it will happen. He works, tirelessly. Mingyu admires that. But it makes things complicated, sometimes needlessly.

Minghao is silent. It’s not that weird, frankly, for him to get lost in his work, but he’s barely said two words to Mingyu all day. Furiously drafting and tearing pages out of his notebook like some madcap inventor, standing in front of props, glaring at them like he’s communicating his disappointment telepathically.

They’ve graduated from the setbuilding lab to working in tandem with the rest of the crew in the theater, black box turning into a capsule of a dollhouse like a funhouse under their hands, textures popping off the walls — where Wheein found velvet-striped wallpaper he may never know. Mingyu’s arms ache from carting their bigger set pieces into the theater and he rubs at his biceps with a wince, trying to stretch them out as he approaches Minghao.

“Do you need help with anything? I’m all done with the desk for the parlor and the chest of drawers, I’m at your service!” Mingyu grins and flexes his arm exaggeratedly.

Minghao shrugs, but Mingyu can see that his jaw is tight.

“It’s not right,” Minghao mutters, rubbing his jaw with three fingers.

“What isn’t?” Mingyu asks.

Minghao rolls his eyes and clicks his tongue, mouth closed but moving like he’s sounding out words, tasting them before he lets them go. The way he does sometimes when he’s figuring out if he should even say it once he gets his brain around it. Mingyu reaches out to touch Minghao’s shoulderblade reassuringly through his jacket, but he jerks and stiffens and Mingyu yanks his hand back to his side with the burn of it.

 _“It._ It’s not working. There’s too much going on and it looks… it’s not right.” Minghao’s voice is low but his tone is growing increasingly angry.

“It isn’t done yet,” Mingyu says gently.

But he sees why Minghao is nervous, worried that his vision isn’t coming across and afraid that once full-dress rehearsals start for the cast that it’ll be too late. It’s Mingyu’s project, too, after all, and despite the fact that he knows that it’s theatre and art and it’s all relative and as long as he writes a good enough paper analyzing their point at the end they’ll get a good grade, it’s something he cares about. Needs to do well for everyone involved. The community of the thing.

“Wheein trusted us to do this, we’ve been in the lab for weeks, it should look pretty close to done,” Minghao says tersely.

“You’re not letting anyone down, you know,” Mingyu says, and shoves his hands in his pockets as Minghao’s fingers twitch at his sides.

“What did I do this for if it wasn’t going to be right?” he snaps.

Mingyu takes a wide step into Minghao’s periphery, looking at his gritted teeth and tired eyes. “Then let me help you! We’re supposed to be doing this together, right? I’m fine with you taking the lead, you’re brilliant and have such vision and passion, but I can’t count the times I came into the lab and you had finished shit on your own that I couldn’t have even thought of, imagined in a million years. You work too hard, Minghao, let me _help_ you, fuck.”

At the curse, Minghao frowns, and Mingyu mutters an apology that Minghao waves off. Minghao looks like he’s considering something, thinking too hard as always, swallows, blinks, then lets himself just have it — and suddenly Minghao’s face is buried in the crook of Mingyu’s neck, lean arms wrapped tight around his waist like Mingyu’s turning to dust.

He feels a little like he might.

Minghao’s hands press into Mingyu’s back like clay, softened under kneading fingertips even while his hands don’t move. No part of him moves, really. Just the rise and fall of his chest against the side of Mingyu’s, forehead nestled against his neck. Mingyu feels his eyelashes flutter shut against his skin and briefly thinks of the prettiest moth he ever saw.

They don’t say anything, Minghao just breathing deep and slow, mindful and purposeful, and Mingyu feels… grounded. Something they both needed.

And they don’t say anything, Minghao pulling away slowly to stand up straight, hands sliding along Mingyu’s waist like an apology, like gratitude, and Mingyu just smiles.

They don’t say anything, but Minghao smiles too.

His perfectionism could be at odds with the soft demeanor Minghao wears as The8, but it isn’t. He carries an optimism guardrailed by realism, a positivity that you can let people into your life and trust them and love them without making them your everything, without losing yourself. Mingyu feels it surround Minghao, more and more so in person, as well. He’s not two separate entities, he’s one whole person.

The8 is reading. Mingyu has stopped watching with his friends — he doesn’t know if they stopped watching altogether, but Seokmin apprently confessed to Hansol that it was different, now, knowing who it is. “Not that I don’t trust him! But now he’s real, you know?” — holing up with his laptop in his bedroom and a mug of hot chocolate now that the weather is colder.

“‘...I feel like he trusts me now, which is a responsibility I don’t take lightly. I want to feel like I deserve it. I show the signs of love, but not because you tell me how. I do it because that’s how I feel. But I know something about him I don’t know if he wants me to know. If that makes sense. It doesn’t matter to me, doesn't change how I feel, but I don’t want to spook him. How do I reach out without ruining what we’ve built together? Love,’” Minghao pauses, voice catching on the word. “‘Puppy Love.’”

It took Mingyu hours to craft that message, staring at his phone screen and typing and erasing and thinking harder than he wanted to about it. He wished it could have come easy, the way everything else does. Mingyu tries to be in tune with his emotions, acknowledge them by name and look them in the eye, but he keeps imagining looking into Minghao’s eyes and saying it out loud and walls start caving in. This is easier. For now.

But the way Minghao’s The8 veneer cracks a little as his tone floats higher when he picks up certain turns of phrase Mingyu dropped (a little hopeful, but mostly because his chest felt full and he had to let some of it out somewhere), his voice thoughtful and purposeful in a still gentle but more serious, less meandering way, gives Mingyu pause.

“Puppy Love,” Minghao starts, and his tone is kind of strained, and it flips a switch inside Mingyu.

Mingyu has never wished so badly to see Minghao’s face, to look in his eyes, to watch his mind work through his expression and to be there when he figures it out. But he settles for restless fingers, hands opening and closing like they’re grasping for something just out of reach.

“Puppy Love, you’ve come so far. I can’t take credit for your progress, because it sounds like you and the boy you… have feelings for… have really made a connection. The last sign is declarations of love, right? And only you can decide if talking about the thing that’s bothering you will hold you back from that. But I have a good feeling about this, Puppy Love. It seems to me like he might care a lot about you too.”

When Seokmin raps softly on the door, pushing it open, Mingyu must look devastated, because Seokmin takes a running start and leaps onto Mingyu’s bed to envelop him in a hug.

“What’s wrong? Is everything okay?” Seokmin asks against Mingyu’s temple, eyes big and concerned.

“No, actually,” Mingyu laughs hoarsely. His sinuses feel tight and his throat cottony, and when Seokmin squeezes his arm Mingyu feels his lashes stick together with moisture. “I’m so fucked.”

 

•

 

“I got impatient, I’m sorry,” Minghao says, jogging up to where Mingyu is sitting in the student center with Jisoo and Soonyoung. He’s wearing this look on his face that’s half sheepish, half eager, and, like everything else in the history of things, he’s wearing it exceptionally well. But recognition flashes across his face when he sees Mingyu’s company. “Oh, Jisoo-hyung, Soonyoung-hyung! Good to see you.”

Jisoo has a shit-eating grin on, and Soonyoung’s eyes are overly innocent and wide, and Mingyu wants to throttle them both.

“Impatient how?” Mingyu asks, gritting his teeth against the pointed scrape of the heel of Soonyoung’s shoe against his calf under the table.

Minghao sets his bag down next to Mingyu and scoots his chair in. Their feet knock together, but Minghao doesn’t move. “Well, Wheein said to just tell you to check your email but I wanted to tell you instead. There’s going to be a small get-together for the cast and crew this weekend, so we can fit it in before tech week and finals.”

Mingyu grins. “We get out of class four hours ago and you chase me down on the other side of campus to tell me something I could see in an email?”

Cheeks pinkening, Minghao says, “Well, when you say it like that it sounds ridiculous.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Soonyoung says, resting his chin in both hands and peering fascinatedly at Mingyu and Minghao, who give him twin grimaces.

“Would you look at the time,” Jisoo deadpans, voice dry as the desert. Clearly reentering the running for Mingyu’s Favorite Hyung, he takes pity on Mingyu, pinching the skin on the back of Soonyoung’s neck. Soonyoung yelps, whirling around to find Jisoo holding his backpack. “We have to go, Mingyu-yah, but message me if you need anything, okay? See you back at the dorm, Myungho.”

Soonyoung’s loafers only screech along the tile a little as Jisoo yanks him away. Small victories where you can take them.

Embarrassed, Mingyu winces. He turns back to Minghao, whose giggle sends sparks through Mingyu’s veins like a power surge. _Oh._ His nose is crinkled and his teeth are showing and Mingyu is painfully endeared. _(In love,_ he shoves down into the pit of his stomach.)

“I thought you were busy on Tuesdays after class,” Mingyu says carefully. Not for the first time he appreciates subtext in a world lacking telepaths, hearing in his own mind, _Your The8 comment session barely ended, and I know because I was refreshing the page on my phone like an idiot. I liked the advice you gave the girl who said her love moved away._

“Oh, dear. Tired of me already,” Minghao sighs, fluttering his eyelashes mournfully, and Mingyu hates that it’s so pretty even while he’s joking.

“Never,” Mingyu says.

Minghao smiles softly. “I don’t know how you make that sound so sincere.”

That’s an easy one. Simple. “It’s because I am.”

Shaking his head, Minghao says, “Anyway, I can be busy, but I make time for the things I need to do. And the things I want to do.”

Mingyu takes a deep breath and says, “What were you doing?”

And suddenly he’s on the receiving end of one of those languid stares, where Mingyu feels transparent and glowing like a box jellyfish, where Minghao’s eyes rake over him and consume him whole. “You’re not a very good liar,” Minghao says in lieu of a direct response, thumb casually rubbing over the nails on the same hand.

“Liar?” Mingyu asks.

“Mm, I guess that’s not the right word. I think I mean you aren’t subtle.”

Mingyu feels caught, trapped, jellyfish arms tangled in sleek netting, panic flickering along his skin like static.

But Minghao is smirking a little, eyes electric, and it’s kind of doing something for Mingyu, so he plays along. “I’ll have you know I’m very subtle. Maybe you’re just a good detective.”

Laughing, then, Minghao lets his foot nudge Mingyu’s again, and Mingyu grins back. “It doesn’t take a detective to read you. It’s one of your best qualities.”

Mingyu blurts out, in spite of his better judgement, “What, not being able to hide how I feel?”

And the air changes, and this conversation is turning, something distinctly like paddling out into deep water. Mingyu hopes that when the tide comes in he’ll be able to get back to shore.

“Yeah, actually,” is all Minghao says, then, foot still nestled against Mingyu’s.

“Well,” starts Mingyu. He sort of hopes his brain will supply the rest if he just starts talking, but he’s at a loss. The silence lingers.

Minghao hums, then says, “I think you already have an idea of what I was doing before this.” The look on his face is… not super pleasant.

 _Shit._ “I’m sorry,” Mingyu says. “I wasn’t going to say anything about The8.”

“I know,” Minghao says, and his face is drawn when he gives Mingyu that guarded smile again, tight at the corners. “That’s why I had to bring it up. Like I said, impatient.”

Mingyu feels fond despite the way Minghao seems to be upset about the whole thing. So he deflects a little, tries to make things easier. Minghao is so open as The8. But it’s much harder to be vulnerable in person.

“So you didn’t really come all this way to tell me about Wheein’s get-together?” Mingyu says lightly.

Minghao shrugs. “It wasn’t all pretense. I do want to go with you.”

Mingyu blinks, taken aback. “With me?”

“We did the work together, it makes sense, right?” Minghao says.

Oh. “Oh,” Mingyu says. “Right,” he says. “Of course,” he says.

“We worked hard. Let’s celebrate,” Minghao says, and the way he says it sounds weird. An air of finality.

Mingyu stands up, and Minghao looks surprised to see Mingyu slide his laptop back into his bag and hoist it over his shoulder. He’s still leaning forward, legs crossed at the knee, foot floating where it brushed Mingyu’s, and it twists in Mingyu’s chest.

Mingyu needs to talk about the The8 thing. And Minghao was the one who brought it up. But if he doesn’t really want to talk about it right now, they don’t have to talk about it right now.

So Mingyu says, “Message me about it? I want to go with you,” and he tries not to sound too meaningful or saccharine or disappointed, even though he feels like every syllable drips with want.

“Sure,” Minghao says, chewing on his lip.

He smiles at Mingyu, that restrained thing again, and Mingyu can’t help himself, reaches for Minghao’s hand where it hovers over his knee. Just brushes his fingertips along Minghao’s, not taking his hand, just running feather-light over Minghao’s beautiful fingers, trying to convey what he feels.

Since apparently it shines out of him. Beams and radiates from every pore.

Mingyu could be embarrassed, but the way Minghao’s eyes trace where their hands meet makes him think there’s hope yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for sticking by me! sorry about the Emotion! chapter four will be up soon.
> 
> catch me on [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/jeongyeunnie/) and [curiouscat](http://www.curiouscat.me/pixiepower/)!


	4. i’m looking for your traces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rating goes up in this chapter!
> 
> chapter title from “freeze!” by momoland

“It’s not a party; it’s an intimate get-together,” Mingyu insists over his shoulder, and Seungkwan scoffs from where he and Seokmin are tangled together on Mingyu’s bed waiting for Mingyu’s last-minute adjustments. Mingyu turns around and holds his arms out as if to say, _What do you think?_

“You don’t dress like _that_ for intimate get-togethers,” says Seungkwan appreciatively. He hums, thinking for a moment before giggling, “Unless… how intimate are we talking?”

Mingyu blushes. “No! It’s for everyone working on Wheein’s show, not… It’s not really a party. And it’s _not_ a date. He made that pretty clear.”

Seokmin leans his head on Seungkwan’s shoulder from behind, sighing dreamily, “But you want it to be.”

“Of course I want it to be!” Mingyu says, shoving his hands in the pockets of his very closely tailored grey dress pants.

He had spent the better part of half an hour buckling himself into a black leather harness, over a semi-sheer pink silk dress shirt. Minghao’s influence, he supposes, but Mingyu was pleased to find that he likes the way he looks in it, and especially how he feels. An outfit like that gives you a sort of power.

And if he took a handful of photos of himself in the bathroom while he played a Taemin song in the background, who could judge him for it? A good thirst trap photo is like insurance in your camera roll; better to have it just in case you need it.

“Is he meeting you there?” Seokmin asks when Mingyu glances at his phone for what might be the ninth time in five minutes.

“Yeah. He said he’ll meet me there,” Mingyu parrots. “Wheein’s is close to their dorm so I figured that would be better.” A soft smile plays across Mingyu’s face as he checks his message screen again, where Minghao sent him an emoji with a party hat. His stomach twists bittersweetly.

“This is so cute,” Seokmin murmurs not-so-quietly into Seungkwan’s ear, and nuzzles his cheek against Seungkwan’s.

“Remember when Hansol was like this?” Seungkwan reminisces fondly, and Seokmin makes a happy noise in response.

“Stop, Hansol was so lovesick for Jisoo, it was almost pathetic,” Mingyu says, plucking stray fuzz off the front of his trousers. He looks up at them suddenly, brows furrowed. “Wait, _hey_. No fair ganging up on me.”

Seokmin and Seungkwan laugh at him, a synchronous, beaming, sunshiney sound (the way they do most things together), and Mingyu flushes again.

He’s surrounded by flourishing relationships, and Mingyu can’t help but compare. It would be pretty characteristic for him to flounder where everyone else has succeeded. And much as he’s afraid to admit it, he wants this to work out with Minghao. Like, very badly. Which is probably why it _won’t_ work, but if there’s anything Mingyu’s well-acquainted with, it’s covering up misplaced anxiety with boisterous overconfidence; hence, the outfit.

“I’m going, then,” Mingyu declares, and Seokmin and Seungkwan flutter up to coo encouragingly at him from all sides.

“We’re so proud of you!”

“Aigoo, hyung, so handsome!”

“You’re going to be so great!”

“Think of us when you’re grinding with him!”

“I will absolutely not do that,” Mingyu laughs, but lets Seungkwan and Seokmin envelop him in a hug. “Thank you,” he murmurs between them when they’re pressed up against his sides, and Seokmin pats his face affectionately. Seungkwan pats his butt, equally as affectionately, on Mingyu’s way out. Mingyu feels well taken care of.

By the time he gets to Wheein’s, Mingyu is sure his hands are sweating, which is stupid, because he’s been to a thousand cast parties by now and there is absolutely nothing different about this one.

Wheein lives in one of the apartment-style campus single units, the floor above Jisoo and Wonwoo’s dorm, and Mingyu can tell that she makes good use of the space, because he’s only rounding the corner when he hears the muffled din, telltale of a gathering of theatre people. Her door is propped open, and a little sign with twinkle lights hangs off the number next to it, blinking _Wheein’s Place_ in neat little lettering. It’s fun, but well put-together, like Wheein herself.

Mingyu pokes his head in and waves to Sooyoung, who’s fiddling with the speakers on top of the mantle. She smiles back and tilts her head toward the kitchen, where the stack of paper plates is almost laughably tall. Wheein and someone who Mingyu remembers as her girlfriend are inside, opening four different types of chips, and Mingyu asks, “Can I help with anything?”

“Oh, Mingyu!” Wheein turns her head to look at him and smiles gratefully. “You are the sweetest. That’s okay, Hyejinnie and I’ve got it! What good is a girlfriend if she can’t help you set up the second round of snacks?”

“And _buy_ the snacks, and eat the snacks…” Hyejin says teasingly, and Wheein laughs, eyes adoring.

“That too. Enjoy yourself, Mingyu-yah!”

Mingyu grabs a loose handful of shrimp-flavored chips and walks back out into the living area, where a group of the understudy actors are shouting along to a Girls Generation song and doing an approximation of point choreography that Mingyu thinks might actually be by a different group. It makes him smile anyway, and he picks up a plastic champagne glass and silently toasts them. Dabin from scene study last year catches it out of the corner of her eye, grins and blows him a kiss.

His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he swipes it open with one hand.

 _That’s certainly an outfit,_ the message reads. Mingyu looks up, catching Minghao’s eye from across the room, where he’s literally leaning against the doorframe, backlit by the hallway, twinkle lights flickering and illuminating his face. He looks like stars and Mingyu wants to die. For fuck’s sake.

He downs the rest of his champagne and lets Minghao come to him, because he has Dignity and is also incredibly stressed.

“You’re talking about _my_ outfit? You must be joking,” Mingyu says instead of hello, gesturing to Minghao’s ribboned top and the layers of gauzy fabric sweeping along his lean frame. He’s in boots again, and they bring his face closer to Mingyu’s, and it’s a lot.

Minghao smiles. “Thank you,” he says, and the look on his face is like he wants to smirk and blush at the same time. _Cute, so cute._

All of Mingyu’s feelings wash through him at once, and he feels a little overwhelmed with Minghao staring up at him in the low light of Wheein’s entryway. He doesn’t understand how Minghao can act like nothing has happened, can act sweet and funny and touchy — his hand is on Mingyu’s forearm, resting gently — when Mingyu feels so turned over.

“Heeeey, everybody!” Hyejin is trilling, and the room softens to a dull hum as she wraps an arm around Wheein.

Wheein grins and kisses Hyejin quickly, raising her cup. “I wanted to thank everyone for working so hard on pre-production for our show. The final stretch is ahead of us, so I hope you enjoy the rest of the night! I’ll work hard for you, I promise! Thank you!”

A cheer rings through the room, and Sooyoung dials the music back up as people start to dance in the living room and sit on the dining room table with snacks. Minghao says, “Come with me to get a drink?” and Mingyu follows dutifully.

In the kitchen, Minghao pours raspberry wine into a cup and asks Mingyu, “Why didn’t you audition for an acting part?”

“Honestly, I wouldn’t have been able to do it. Class and other stuff has kept me busy, and I haven’t been in the right mindset to get in someone else’s head,” Mingyu says. Minghao raises an eyebrow knowingly and Mingyu laughs sheepishly. “You know what I mean.”

“Next semester, though?” Minghao asks.

Mingyu shrugs. “Maybe. I miss it.” And he does. It’s been a good year at least since he was in a play or even entered a monologue in a showcase, and something feels like it’s out of place. The past few months have brought him back into the theatre, and he feels so close yet so far.

“I’ll miss your design skills. It’s always nice to have extra hands,” Minghao says, pressing the back of his hand against Mingyu’s and taking a sip of wine.

“Are you sticking with set design, then?”

“Only if you get a part. Someone has to make you look good,” says Minghao, smirking.

“You’re so mean,” Mingyu laughs. Running a hand through his hair, he bites his lip and looks at Minghao with a pout. “You mean I don’t look good?”

“I didn’t say that,” Minghao says elusively, coolly. But Mingyu sees him drain his cup as well. At least they’re on a level playing field.

An hour and another plastic glass of champagne (Mingyu) and cup of wine (Minghao) later, they’re swaying together, pinkies brushing completely and utterly accidentally, as a Baek A Yeon song swirls grandly over the scene.  Sana and Dabin’s foreheads are pressed together as they sing along dramatically, Sana’s sweet voice ever befitting the leading lady. Wheein is watching a video on her phone, headphones plugged in, and Hyejin smooths her hair as Wheein takes notes, working too hard as always. Mingyu feels at home, soft chaos surrounding him, and remembers why he loves all this so much.

It’s just water to follow for the next couple of hours, because they hit that point in the night where things start to get a little handsy at a gathering of theatre people, and Mingyu wants his wits about him. He’s cozied up in the armchair, Minghao watching amusedly from the corner beside him as Jeongyeon spins the bottle in the center of the living room and Sana practically dives inside her mouth the moment it comes to a halt.

“Is it always like this?” Minghao asks in a low voice.

“That’s right, you’ve never… Well, you’ve seen college parties, but this is a _theatre_ party. It is probably the horniest place you could possibly think of at a university,” Mingyu says.

Minghao looks up at him with interest. “You know from experience?”

Mingyu nods. “Too much of it,” he says sagely, and Mingyu’s eyelids lower a little.

The first two fingers on Minghao’s hand hook through one of Mingyu’s belt loops, and Mingyu feels a flare of desire and possessiveness flash through the pit of his stomach. But he has to ruin it, in the interest of transparency.

“You haven’t heard from Puppy Love in a while, have you?”

Minghao’s eyes narrow. “You want to talk about this here? Now?”

“You know it’s me. I know you know,” Mingyu says.

“What?” Minghao says, louder than he probably needs to. _Really?_ And Mingyu thought the actors were dramatic.

Sighing deeply, Mingyu tries to hop back in his seat a little. Minghao is pulled down by the movement, and he knows the armchair is thrifted because it swallows them like a beanbag, ankles crossed with one another. They’re entangled. Mingyu knew it before, but he supposes he believes in metaphors from the universe.

“I laid it all out. I was painfully obvious. From day one. I am _painfully_ obvious, Minghao,” Mingyu says, and takes a deep breath. “That’s fine if it’s not how you feel, but we can’t keep dodging this. You can trust me.”

Minghao’s fingertips are tracing the flowers covering the plush chair’s arm, his other hand clutching his glass of water. He says nothing.

“Tell me I’m not being stupid,” Mingyu says softly, plea echoing quietly in his own ear from how closely Minghao is draped around him. “Tell me it’s not just me.”

At that, Minghao’s eyes snap up and meet Mingyu’s. “I — Mingyu,” Minghao starts, and tries to lean over to set down his water glass, but suddenly collides with Sana standing up dazedly, and whose loose grip on her raspberry wine fails her.

And as soon as he knows it, Mingyu’s shirt is covered in raspberry wine, silk-spattered deep pink as dramatic as the Hamlet production he saw with Seokmin early on last summer.

“I’m so sorry!” Sana gasps, and her eyes glitter with apology as she grabs for some napkins.

Trying to ignore the sticky chill seeping into his chest, Mingyu says, “No, no, it’s fine—”

“We have to go,” Minghao says, voice short, and Mingyu feels the pit of his stomach drop even as Minghao quickly stands. Mingyu stares at the floor, mortified, until Minghao mutters, “Come on, Mingyu,” reaching for his hand and tugging him unceremoniously out of Wheein’s apartment, refreshments forgotten and salutations not given.

“I’m so sorry, this is really embarrassing,” Mingyu is repeating, feeling guilty even though it wasn’t his fault. He has to try to save a little face where he can, and the canter at which they’re traveling leaves Minghao’s heavy-breathed silence deafening, even as he clicks open the door to his dorm.

“We have to get this stupid thing off you,” Minghao mutters, leading Mingyu by the front of the harness into his bedroom, lean fingers of sure hands carefully avoiding the stain spreading across the silk underneath.

Mingyu nods, acquiescent, and follows dutifully. He thinks absently that maybe he’d follow Minghao anywhere, even despite the grumpy, serious look on his face, and feels the tips of his ears warm when Minghao uses one foot to push the door mostly closed.

Even in the low light peeking in from the living area through the crack in the door, Mingyu can make out the neat metal bookcase in one corner of the room, rows of books set with care evenly lining the shelves, the vines of a plant winding down one arm of the shelves. A few home photos on the wall, some polaroids pinned to a ribbon, and the bed pushed against the wall with a warm-looking woven blanket draped carefully over the top. Minghao’s side of the room is neat and put-together but surprisingly warm, and Mingyu thinks it suits Minghao perfectly.

It only takes Minghao one long-legged step to turn on the reading light by his bed, and the room is illuminated with soft orange light. Minghao looks up at Mingyu through his eyelashes when he returns, two hands grasping the closures on the front of the harness, and Mingyu sees him swallow tensely. He looks beautiful, and a little vulnerable, and his eyelashes are impossibly long, and Mingyu is wearing a stained shirt and a terrible harness that was _supposed_ to be sexy.

Minghao hums softly, and Mingyu tracks the slow movement of his slender fingers with his eyes as they trace the soft leather of the harness. Two fingers trail along the middle buckle before he thumbs open the clasp, sliding the leather through deftly. It’s possible that Mingyu isn’t breathing, or else he’s breathing too hard.

“I do like it, though,” Minghao murmurs, as though he’s finishing a thought, the next buckle coming undone as easily as the first. Of course. It took him nearly half an hour to put the damn thing on, and Minghao’s pretty hands can undo it in five minutes.

The dexterity is not lost on Mingyu. He lets out a soft laugh, and it sounds a little hoarse. “Thanks. I was trying to impress you,” Mingyu responds honestly, and Minghao’s eyes crinkle in the corners, face a little pleased, but he doesn’t look up. Instead he undoes the third buckle and slides the harness off Mingyu’s shoulders. Mingyu’s hands go to unbutton his shirt, but land on Minghao’s, already there.

“Can I?” Minghao asks softly, and Mingyu doesn’t think he could say no if he tried. He nods, and tries to slow his heart rate.

It’s as though everything is moving in slow motion. Minghao is undoing the buttons, pushing them through red-spattered pink silk, and his tongue runs across his lower lip, focused. He starts at the top, which, granted, is about the third button down, thank you Taemin song, and Mingyu’s breath catches at the feeling of cool metal; one of Minghao’s heavy rings runs softly down his chest as each button comes undone. It’s unfathomably pretty, and Mingyu’s heart is in his throat. He tries not to shiver, tries not to compound the night’s embarrassment, but the way Minghao’s face is gentle and concentrated is making something twist tightly in his chest and hotly in the pit of his belly.

Opening his mouth to say something, anything, Mingyu ends up just exhaling softly when Minghao gracelessly tugs the bottom hem of Mingyu’s shirt out from his pants. Minghao’s eyes don’t waver from Mingyu’s midsection, and he makes a frustrated noise, his fingers slipping on the last button.

“Fuck,” Minghao breathes, his cheeks coloring a warm coral at the edges. The curse comes out a little stilted, and Mingyu tilts his head to the side, a silent question. Minghao makes another tiny noise in the back of his throat when he finally gets the last button undone, eyes widening slightly, and he repeats, “Fuck. Are you kidding me?”

Mingyu smiles, a little nervous. “What?” he asks, voice wavering.

He moves to take a half-step back, but Minghao’s hands are gripped tight onto the free edges of his shirt, and he’s suddenly being tugged close back into Minghao’s space, his eyes lidded heavy. “Please, I — I need to kiss you, Mingyu. Please,” Minghao says, words ghosting frantically over Mingyu’s lips, and he lets out a pleased whine when Mingyu nods furiously.

And then he’s kissing Mingyu, warm and pliant and, frankly, a little desperate. Mingyu hadn’t known what to do with his hands before, but now they clutch at Minghao’s hips, almost wrapping around them. He’s so lean, _God,_ and his mouth is sliding against Mingyu’s in a way that’s kind of filthy, and it’s perfect. Mingyu’s thumbs rub small circles over Minghao’s slim-cut pants where his hipbones lie, and he kisses him harder, surging forward, soft lips pressing insistently again and again.

“No, no, of course it’s not just you,” Minghao exhales between desperate kisses, answering the question Mingyu forgot he even asked. “Fuck. What are you so hot for?” he mumbles against Mingyu’s mouth, voice a little ragged, gentle hands restless and roving beneath the unbuttoned silk, and Mingyu can’t help but giggle.

Mingyu shrugs, grinning broadly, and licks his lips. “For you,” he says simply.

At that, Minghao sharply tugs him onto his bed by the unbuttoned edges of his godforsaken pink silk fucking shirt.

Mingyu jerks his arms forward, bracing for impact, and ends up rolling over Minghao, the back of his head hitting the wall with a dull _thud._

“Ow,” Mingyu winces, and rubs his eyes with a groan.

“Are you okay?” he hears, the voice soft and concerned, and when he opens his eyes slowly Minghao is leaning over him, one arm pressed against the wall above him, caging him below.

Heat pools in Mingyu’s stomach as he looks up, and his heart stutters at the sight of hair falling into Minghao’s face, a soft look in his eyes despite the flush on his cheeks and the way he’s biting his lip down at Mingyu.

“I’m good,” Mingyu breathes, not trusting his voice to say much more, chest heaving.

“I want–” Minghao starts, catching Mingyu’s eyes, his face flushing prettily as he says, “I want to kiss you.”

“Yes, please,” Mingyu grins, leaning up to meet Minghao, the kiss softer this time, more sure. He lets his tongue run over Minghao’s lower lip, receiving a soft sound of approval in return. “You look so good on top of me,” he murmurs against Minghao’s lips, feeling brave, and is rewarded with a low whine and the press of a rough, sloppy kiss, Minghao licking hotly into his mouth, breaths littering what little space is left between them.

It takes a single terrible moment of time apart, but Minghao manages to swing a leg over Mingyu’s waist, pitching forward to deepen the kiss and letting out another happy sound at the feeling of Mingyu’s hands on his hips again. It’s very cute, and a little dirty, with his legs splayed over Mingyu’s lap, and so delicious when Mingyu angles his hips up for comfort and Minghao gasps at the friction. If this is heaven Mingyu could not be happier to be dead.

The air between them is warm, foggy with want and sweet-tart from the raspberry wine on Mingyu’s shirt, but the fair expanse of Minghao’s neck smells like sandalwood and seawater toner. “You smell good,” Mingyu breathes, since this seems to be the only kind of moment he’s seizing for honesty hour, and sinks his teeth into a soft spot just underneath Minghao’s jaw. The choked-off noise Minghao lets loose at the graze of Mingyu’s canines on his skin goes straight to Mingyu’s dick, and he grinds upward against Minghao, exhaling sharply against Minghao’s jaw.

“Minghao,” he groans, pressing kisses onto the skin below his earlobe, next to the silver chains of his earring. Mingyu pulls back to look up at Minghao, whose face is flushed, raspberry wine, his perfect hair already messy, delicate strands stuck to the sides of his face. Minghao is having trouble meeting his eyes, and Mingyu softens his voice, presses a kiss just past the corner of Minghao’s lips, repeats, “Hao?”

“I – _hff –_ Mingyu, please,” Minghao practically whimpers, voice a little breathless, and Mingyu’s chest feels tight, despite the fact that his shirt is bunched up under his arms, unbuttoned.

He’s distinctly aware of the size of his hands when they run across the soft fabric tight across Minghao’s spread thighs, thumbs grazing the inseam, letting Minghao catch his breath for a moment.

Just… looking at him.

His heart aches something awful, and Minghao touches his forehead to Mingyu’s, eyes closed, breaths ragged, and Mingyu kind of wants to cry. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s cried during sex, but this probably isn’t precisely the moment.

Minghao opens his eyes slowly, dark eyelashes and blown pupils, and smiles at Mingyu, possessive and a little shy.

It knocks the wind out of Mingyu when he says, “Hi, Mingyu,” voice fond, their noses touching gently.

Mingyu whispers back, “Hello, Minghao,” and lets out a breathy groan, half a laugh, when Minghao uses the arm bracketing him against the bed to push off and sit back on his thighs. The motion grinds Minghao down where Mingyu is more than a little hard and Mingyu squeezes his eyes shut, giggling breathlessly, “Oh, my God, you’re killing me.”

A scrunched-up smile breaks across Minghao’s face, and he lays a hand delicately across Mingyu’s bare stomach. The contrast of Minghao’s soft, light hand against the honey-tan of his abs is gorgeous. Minghao almost smirks, bites his lip for a moment when he sees it too, says, “You’re so…” voice trailing off, fingers walking soft paths along his chest and stomach, flattening his hand over where Mingyu’s heart is hammering.

Mingyu’s eyes crinkle in the corners, and he knows he looks kind of dopey, the way he can’t stop smiling at Minghao, but he says, “What?” in an almost teasing voice, and Minghao throws his head back and rubs at his face with both hands, thighs flexing around Mingyu to keep himself upright.

“Cute,” Minghao settles on, mouth in a wide line, corners quirked in the stifled grin Mingyu lives for. “You’re cute, and hot, and it’s not really fair of you to be both. This whole ‘tall, dark, and handsome’ thing you have going on, you know? You’re like the love interest in a drama.”

“You’re one to talk,” Mingyu points out, squeezing a hand on Minghao’s thigh for emphasis, “My blood pressure is skyrocketing because you’ve been straddling me for ten minutes when I’ve wanted to kiss you and also maybe suck you off for months, and you’re making all these noises that make my brain go fuzzy. So, I sort of feel like this one is on you.”

It’s half a joke, but Mingyu is feeling like he should lay all his cards out on the table. If you can’t do it when you’re literally in bed with the object of your affections, then when can you? And the way Minghao giggles and bites his lip in response is very rewarding.

Ghosting his hands over Minghao’s sides, Mingyu becomes aware that he’s half-undressed and that Minghao is somehow, impossibly, still fully dressed in the many layers of his artsy designer whatever, and Mingyu says, “You’re wearing too many clothes,” because it’s all he can think to say. Clichés aside, it’s patently true.

Minghao laughs, and reluctantly swings his leg back over Mingyu to scoot to the edge of the bed. “This _was_ kind of expensive,” he smiles in agreement, and takes a minute to stand up on wobbly deer legs beside his bed, Mingyu’s hand not leaving his waist until he steps too far away. Mingyu is trying not to let Minghao’s uneven steps go to his head. He curses again, and the sound of it makes Mingyu feel a little woozy. He sees the door is still open, and watches as Minghao closes and locks it quickly.

Raising an eyebrow, Mingyu says teasingly, “Not into exhibitionism?”

Minghao barks out a laugh, but his cheeks pinken again, and Mingyu makes a mental note to revisit that later. “No comment. Regardless, Junhui would never be my target audience,” Minghao says, shuddering at the thought and shrugging off his sheer overshirt. He catches Mingyu’s eye and smirks, adding in a low voice, “Now, you, on the other hand…”

Everything about Minghao is purposeful, and it’s a little mesmerizing and a lot attractive to watch him untie the ribbon at the neck of his top, leaving it hanging loose and blousy on his frame. His eyes follow as Minghao’s long fingers make quick work of the buttons, and as he folds the rest of his clothes gently and sets them on his desk. Mingyu knew he was gorgeous, body all long and lean, but, God. Bathed in low light, half-hard in his sleek briefs, he’s something else entirely.

Voice tentative and a little uneven, Mingyu says, “Is it too much if I ask you to get back on top of me?”

“Honestly, I’d be a little offended if you didn’t,” Minghao says, licking his lips when he crawls back over Mingyu, kissing him slow and deep.

It’s good because it’s Minghao, and it’s good because it’s _good_ , and Mingyu can feel the muscles jump under his hands when he runs them over Minghao’s sides, pulling him flush against him.

“That tickles!” Minghao flushes and sort of tucks his face into his shoulder, but laughs his sweet high-pitched giggle, perfect nose scrunching up, and it’s so _cute,_ God, and Mingyu’s becoming very aware of how his heart and his dick are very much on the same page. So he reaches a hand up to run over Minghao’s jaw, letting it trace the softened edges of the sharp line, and, before he loses his nerve, trails his thumb over Minghao’s soft lips. He’s so beautiful.

“You’re so beautiful,” Mingyu says, because he can.

What he doesn’t expect is for Minghao’s lips to part, his eyes to darken, and his head to lean back, throat exposed as he sucks Mingyu’s thumb into his mouth. Mingyu blinks slowly in disbelief, and can feel himself getting harder under Minghao’s hips at the feeling of Minghao’s tongue laving over the pad of his thumb. Minghao’s eyelashes flutter closed, and his mouth is open, lips wet and parted, and it’s beautiful and debauched and Mingyu _moans,_ loud.

Minghao keens in response, hips grinding against Mingyu, and rakes his nails down Mingyu’s chest, long fingers trailing the top edge of his pants right above where Minghao is half-sitting. His eyes open languidly, and the look on his face makes Mingyu slowly pull his fingers out of Minghao’s mouth to let him ask, voice ragged, “Can I touch you?”

All Mingyu can do is nod, and shudder at the feeling of Minghao undressing him more, soft hands undoing the clasp of his belt and unzipping his pants, pushing them lower on his thighs. He thinks absently that the whole undressing-him thing has turned him on way more than he expected, and something in the back of his mind wants to know if this is going to pose a problem for him later. But for now he hisses at Minghao’s fingertips brushing over his cock, through his underwear, and hears him murmur, “Wanted to do this for so long. You’re so hard.”

He knows he is.

The back of his head hits the pillow at Minghao’s comment (and that smells like Minghao, too) and Mingyu throws an arm over his face, then thinks better of it and stares openly at Minghao. It wouldn’t be worth it to miss this, overwhelmed as he feels.

Minghao shuffles a little on his knees until he’s straddling just one of Mingyu’s thighs instead of both, and he has his tongue between his teeth, face concentrated in that little way that makes Mingyu’s heart twist.

He dips his fingers under the elastic of Mingyu’s briefs, wraps one of his hands around Mingyu, fingertips sliding through precome, and Mingyu only has time to be a little embarrassed at how his hips jerk involuntarily at the brush of fingers before Minghao smiles, says, “You’re so good.”

A tingle goes up Mingyu’s spine and he struggles to keep his eyes open against the feeling, but watches as Minghao’s sure, beautiful hands tug his underwear down and push his pants further down his legs toward his knees. One of his hands stays gripped into Mingyu’s thigh (pretty contrast) as the other thumbs at the head of his dick.

Mingyu can hear himself moaning, mouth a little dry, voice a little broken, and basks in the feeling. Minghao’s hand is moving, gentle but determined, the strokes not teasing despite the pleased little look on his face, and Mingyu bucks into the touch, one broad hand gripping Minghao’s waist and the other clutching at the blanket.

Mingyu must look as gone as he feels, because Minghao is whining in the back of his throat, and is rocking back and forth on his thigh as his hand works Mingyu’s cock. Riding his thigh. _Fuck._

“I’m close already, Hao, want– want to touch you, please,” Mingyu gets out through breathless moans, “Can I blow you?”

He doesn’t miss how Minghao’s eyes darken, how his tongue darts out before he bites down on his bottom lip, and he slides up on Mingyu’s lap to kiss him, messy and needy and perfect. There’s a moment of friction where Minghao’s clothed erection rubs against Mingyu’s hard-on, and Mingyu hisses at the sensation.

Mingyu’s hand slides between them, grazing Minghao’s nipple and making him gasp _yes, yes_ into their kiss. He grasps at Minghao’s hips, mutters, “Hang on,” and, with a struggle, flips them over, bodies pressing together and blanket bunching up underneath them. Minghao’s eyes are big, and he’s laughing in surprise up at Mingyu, and Mingyu just. Wants.

He finally shucks off his wine-stained shirt all the way, letting it fall to the ground before peppering kisses along Minghao’s jaw as his hands roam over his skin.

“I,” Minghao starts, breath catching when Mingyu’s thumb rubs over his nipple again, “I liked when you used your teeth.” He’s flushed but smiling under the blush, and Mingyu nods with a grin, nipping at Minghao’s neck on the way down. The little encouraging whimpers Minghao lets out when Mingyu sucks marks down his neck, onto his chest, over his cute stomach, are really doing something for him.

Mingyu looks up at Minghao through half-lidded eyes, catching his gaze as he licks at him through his briefs. He runs a hand up and down Minghao’s erection, sucking a bite into the inside of his pale thigh.

“Fuck,” Minghao pants, and Mingyu is trying not to let his ego run away with him, but it feels good to have Minghao writhing underneath him. Minghao deserves to feel good. And the sounds he makes are utterly delicious.

He flattens his tongue and licks up the length of Minghao’s cock where he’s hard in his underwear, and Minghao whines, hand flying down to card through Mingyu’s hair quickly. It comes to rest at the nape of Mingyu’s neck, long pretty fingers curling against the back. It’s soft, and a little possessive, and Mingyu leans into it.

“Of course your dick is pretty,” Mingyu says softly, more to himself than anything, voice a little awestruck as he pulls Minghao’s briefs down swiftly. He can’t help himself, kisses it where it stands against Minghao’s stomach. Minghao giggles breathlessly and turns his face into the pillow, making a cute noise that turns into a quiet but broken moan when Mingyu licks more decisively, takes him deeper into his mouth, swirls his tongue just so over the head.

Mingyu knows he isn’t perfect at blowjobs; he gets a little messy and a little wiggly, but what he lacks in technique he more than makes up in enthusiasm. It’s not a science, it’s an art, right?

It seems to be working, nevertheless, if the way Minghao is clearly doing his best not to cant his hips up into his mouth is any indication. And the dulcet-toned babbling, mixed Chinese and Korean, little encouragements and endearments, are kind of pushing Mingyu closer to coming himself, and he’s trying not to rut against the blankets in his half-undone suit pants. (He’s not succeeding.)

Mingyu can’t take his eyes off Minghao’s sweet scrunched-up face as he hollows his cheeks, one hand working what he can’t get his tongue on, and from this angle he can see Minghao’s eyelashes fluttering beautifully. He redoubles his efforts when Minghao squeezes his eyes shut tight, and hears him keening, “Mingyu, babe, fuck, so good, I’m going to – fuck, I’m–”

Mingyu nods (as much as he can with a dick in his mouth), and Minghao pulls his hand away from where it cradled the back of Mingyu’s head, desperately feeling around the blankets for something, maybe nothing. A soft feeling takes over Mingyu’s heart despite the context, and he reaches up his free hand and takes Minghao’s soft, pretty hand in his.

Minghao intertwines their fingers quickly and grips tight, suddenly coming, white-knuckled with a high-pitched whine, onto Mingyu’s tongue.

It’s too much; his hand in Minghao’s, the soft “babe” that fell out when Minghao wasn’t paying attention, the sweet noises he’s shakily making now that Mingyu’s swallowed and pulled off him, the feeling of his own hips rolling against the bed involuntarily.

The whole thing is kind of overwhelming, and when Minghao, still whimpering breathily, gently rubs a thumb over Mingyu’s hand, Mingyu comes _hard_ , sinking his teeth into the lean softness of Minghao’s inner thigh with a muffled cry, orgasm flashing white in his line of vision as he shudders through it.

“Oh, Mingyu,” Minghao sighs out somewhere above him, but it’s not teasing. His voice is still a little ragged and his tone is fond and dreamy, and Mingyu is breathing hard against Minghao’s thigh, too embarrassed to look up. Or down, for that matter, where he came against Minghao’s sheets, pants half-down his legs. It’s kind of embarrassing, even through the fuzzy blissed-out feeling washing over his brain.

But a gentle kiss is pressed against his hand, the one in Minghao’s, and Mingyu’s chest feels tight in the fluttery warm way it has for weeks and weeks.

“Fuck, I like you so much,” Mingyu laughs breathlessly, feeling like he might cry, because he can’t stop himself from saying it. Because it’s true. Because he hopes Minghao feels the same way. Because he has to say it.

“Come here,” Minghao is saying, tugging on Mingyu’s hand where they’re clasped and reaching down for his other one.

He sees Minghao pull his underwear back on as Mingyu pushes himself up, shaking out his knees and elbows, groaning a little at the stretch. He tucks up against Minghao’s side, face burning at the edges, body still tingling a little from the orgasm.

“Will you kiss me?” asks Minghao, nose pressing against Mingyu’s temple. “Please kiss me.” His voice is a little strained, like he’s worried, and his hands keep feathering over Mingyu’s hands, like Mingyu’s fingers are a little bird that could fly away without a moment’s notice.

Mingyu smiles despite himself. “How can I say no?”

Minghao is already three-quarters of the way to his mouth when he arrives, and he sighs happily as Mingyu presses their lips together. They fit well, and it’s hard not to keep smiling, hard not to keep kissing.

“You’re so good,” Minghao whispers again, laughing a little. “So good. It was so good. Why can’t I say anything else? Sorry.” His face is scrunched up, nose crinkling as he smiles shyly, and Mingyu is painfully endeared.

“I’m sorry I…” Mingyu starts, and Minghao shakes his head.

“If you apologize for anything about that, I will never talk to you again,” Minghao says solemnly, and Mingyu thinks he might be serious, so he closes his mouth. “You just deserve to know how good you are. Like, in every way.”

Mingyu hums, drumming his fingers on his thigh instead of responding. He opens and closes his mouth a few times. He wants to say a lot of things, and doesn’t know where to start.

So Minghao continues, softly, “I really like you. I hope, ah, that’s obvious.” He laughs his nervous giggle, a sheepish hand running through his hair, the other loosely holding Mingyu’s hand. Mingyu’s stomach flips as Minghao continues, “I like that you say what you’re thinking. I feel like I’m always in my own head, you know?”

He does know.

Nodding, Mingyu says, “I want things to be simple, because for me they should be simple. Wanting things should be easy, because it’s what your heart needs.”

Minghao smiles. “What does your heart need, Kim Mingyu?” he says gently, like he’s tentative of the answer.

“You, I think. I like you a lot. Like I said, um,” Mingyu says, a blush rising. He shrugs, a mischievous look spreading over his face as he adds, “And maybe also for you to fuck me next time.”

Minghao makes a choked sound, and it makes Mingyu laugh. Minghao shoves his side playfully, muttering, “‘Fuck me next time.’ You can’t just say shit like that. A man has a delicate constitution.”

“Your came in my mouth. I feel like maybe that affords certain privileges,” Mingyu says with a grin, kissing at Minghao’s neck, softly brushing over the skin where a little row of love bites is blooming.

He sighs dreamily in response, tilting his head to the side and musing, “Yeah, that sounds _really_ good.”

Mingyu beams, pressing more kisses to Minghao’s neck and relishing his soft sensitive gasps, until he’s suddenly startling at the sound of a loud, crisp knock on the door.

“Hao, I swear, if you’re fucking Mingyu in my bed there will be consequences!”

“Oh, my God, Junhui.” Minghao’s face burns with embarrassment as he scrambles to stand, and Mingyu barks out a laugh.

“Hyung, would we do that to you?” he half-yells, sitting up too fast and buttoning his pants back up, thanking his past self for choosing a mid-toned grey to complement the pink shirt. Minghao hands him a cleaning cloth from his nightstand that is probably for skincare, and Mingyu smiles at him gratefully as he wipes at the evidence. (He thanks his lucky stars that most of it is hidden in the mussed sheets crumpled at the foot of Minghao’s bed.)

“Wait. Mingyu?” Jun’s voice floats through the door, and he sounds confused, both scandalized and a little proud. The banging on the door resumes, more fiercely this time, and it kind of sounds like he’s using both hands now. “Minghao, no way! I was joking!”

“I didn’t fuck him on your bed!” Minghao hisses against the doorjamb, fingers skittering over his shirt buttons and then with the lock on the door. His voice sounds frantic, a little panicked when he asks, “Why — oh, no. No. Do you and Soonyoung have sex in my bed? Junnie, gē, no. Tell me you don’t.”

Mingyu is laughing, taking a last longing moment to appreciate Minghao’s body before he watches him tug his pants back on and yank open the door, red-faced, to glare at Junhui. Mingyu’s holding his wine-stained shirt in his hands but grins at Junhui as he looks past Minghao into the room, waving sheepishly when they meet eyes.

“Well, damn,” Junhui says at their disheveled state, eyes wide, and then says nothing else. Mingyu glances down at his own bare-chestedness, but decides that wine-stained is worse than shirtless, and pulls his harness back on like a vest.

Minghao glances between Mingyu and Junhui, and his face flushes. He opens and closes his mouth a couple of times, eventually saying, “Can I help you?”

Junhui strides past Minghao, drops his bag on the seat of the black desk chair on his side of the room, and crosses his arms, a wide, catlike smile creeping across his face. He kind of seems like he knows something Mingyu doesn’t, and it’s a little unsettling. “I know you said you were going to a party, but I didn’t know it was _that_ kind of party. I feel like Soonyoung would have told me.”

Rolling his eyes, Minghao reaches back for Mingyu’s hand and tugs him toward the door. “ _Goodbye_ , Junhui.”

“Goodbye, Junhui-hyung,” Mingyu echoes, letting his fingers thread through Minghao’s and waving goodbye with his other hand.

A small smile plays across Minghao’s lips even as he sighs exasperatedly, closing the door behind him and tucking his key back into his pocket. Mingyu’s heart sighs in response, at the self-satisfied look on Minghao’s face and at the way their fingers stay intertwined as Minghao takes long strides through the hallways back toward Wheein’s apartment.

“Not to pry or anything, but why did Junhui—”

Minghao giggles, and it’s Mingyu’s favorite sound. “He, ah,” Minghao blushes a little, “He’s been making fun of my crush on you for weeks. I think you broke his brain a little bit. Serves him right.”

Mingyu grins. “You talk about fucking me a lot, then?”

Minghao waves a hand nonchalantly, but the faint blush on the edges of his cheeks remains. “Have you seen yourself? I’m not ashamed to say it.”

“Thank you,” Mingyu laughs. “I knew my improved wardrobe has been paying off.”

“It really has,” Minghao says faintly, nodding vaguely at the harness slung undone across Mingyu’s bare chest.

“They say to have great fashion is to take risks,” declares Mingyu, voice presentational.

“Well, they’re right. You’ve got to be put together.”

“I’m nothing if not put together!” Mingyu says indignantly, and Minghao giggles again.

“Yes. Everything about tonight has been thoroughly strategized, meticulously planned, and gone absolutely smoothly,” Minghao says with a straight face, and suddenly stops in his tracks and turns to face Mingyu. He says with a smirk, “Not a single moment was unexpected.”

“Exactly,” breathes Mingyu, and feels a bolt of lightning tingle up his back at the look in Minghao’s eyes.

“Well, overthinking is my job,” Minghao says, reaching up and resting a hand at the back of Mingyu’s neck. He murmurs, “Next time, let me put you together,” and pulls Mingyu into him for another deep kiss.

Mingyu’s back hits the wall around the corner from Wheein’s apartment, and Minghao’s hand runs up his jaw to tangle in his hair. They kiss, and kiss, until breathlessly, Minghao breaks away and says, “I had hoped it was you, by the way.”

“What?” gasps Mingyu, clutching at Minghao’s waist.

“I wanted it to be you,” he breathes, “‘Puppy Love.’ You were so kind and patient and helped my brain when I let it overwhelm me, I…” Minghao’s ears are bright red as he runs out of steam, and he just reaches up to touch Mingyu’s cheekbone in lieu of continuing.

“When did you know?”

Minghao hums and slides his back along the wall to sit on the floor, and Mingyu follows suit.

“The weekend we worked on the wall sconces. You burned your fingers every time we turned them on, and again with the hot glue gun, and you made that joke about losing feeling in your hands. And the message The8 got that night said…” Minghao closes his eyes to remember. “It said that even if all the nerves in your hands turned off you would still want to hold your crush’s hand.”

Mingyu remembers that, remembers running his scorched fingertips over the textures in the setbuilding lab, remembers Minghao opening his palm and letting Mingyu write secret messages into it to make sure he still had feeling in them.

“I wanted it to be me. I couldn’t let myself want it, I had to help everyone else, but I wanted it, wanted you so badly,” Minghao murmurs.

“It was always you,” Mingyu says simply, and Minghao opens his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idol cameos: wheein and hyejin (hwasa) from mamamoo, jeongyeon and sana from twice, sooyoung (joy) from red velvet, and dabin (yeonwoo) from momoland! i love girls thanks
> 
> bonus note: if you’re familiar with “a doll’s house,” i cast sana as nora (dabin as nora understudy) and jeongyeon as kristine. i did not cast the other roles in my head and it doesn’t matter at all plot wise!
> 
> just one more chapter after this! thank you so so much for reading!! i appreciate you!
> 
> catch me on [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/jeongyeunnie/) and [curiouscat](http://www.curiouscat.me/pixiepower/)!


	5. this all goes to you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is romantic horny, and serves as sort of an epilogue!! wow!
> 
> as always, idol cameos by wheein from mamamoo and sana from twice!
> 
> chapter title from “touch” by nct 127.

Opening night feels like the start of a lot of things.

Their names are in the program, side by side, and Seungkwan makes them both sign his copy before the show even begins. Standing in the lobby with the rest of the throng, he produces a silver permanent marker and gives them his sunniest smile, like he needs to convince them. Mingyu catches Minghao’s eye with a knowing smile.

Without hesitation Minghao signs with a flourish and hands it to Mingyu, who winks at Minghao and presses a tinted-lip-balm kiss into the program next to his own signature, much to Seungkwan’s delight.

“I’m going to save this forever,” Seungkwan says. His tone is light but the way his eyes shine at Minghao and Mingyu drips with sincerity.

As if he can read his mind, Minghao’s arm tightens comfortingly around Mingyu’s waist, fingertips brushing against the side seam of his shirt where it meets his waistband perpendicular. Mingyu has picked it up like a second language, the way soft, absentminded touches say _Thank you,_ and _That’s sweet,_ and _I’m happy,_ the way they do in this very moment.

“We’re not up for the Cha Bumseok, it’s just the student showcase,” Mingyu chuckles, but Seokmin doesn’t let him wave it off.

“This is your first design credit! It’s monumental!” Seokmin says, beaming brightly and tucking a few extra copies of the program into the inner pocket of his blue suit jacket. Catching it, Mingyu smiles at him gratefully, and Seokmin smiles back, reaching over and squeezing his hand with pride.

“And if Wheein is as brilliant a director as I suspect she is, a Cha Bumseok Play Award is probably not far off,” Chan says, tugging at the collar of his shirt a little. Seungkwan’s roommate is too smart for his own good, Mingyu thinks, but Minghao nods toward Chan in agreement.

“You guys are going to love it,” Minghao says. His confidence is bolstering.

“I think the whole arts department showed up!” Soonyoung’s voice rings out excitedly as he bounds up to them, clutching his program.

Junhui, whose grey suit pants match Soonyoung’s grey suit jacket (and whose red suit jacket matches Soonyoung’s red suit pants) envelops Minghao in a hug, then gives one to Mingyu in turn. “I know most of the rest of the dance department is here to support Sana, but we’re team Minghao and Mingyu tonight,” he says with a smile.

”Thanks,” Mingyu says, and he does feel honored, won’t take it lightly.

Part of him feels like they’re making a much bigger deal of this than they deserve, but the energy thrumming through the lobby is contagious, and he can’t stop grinning.

For weeks and weeks he’s watched Wheein pull out her hair, and Minghao excuse himself to do mindful breathing exercises, and Sana and Dabin holler cathartic screams into the black box, far too much to think that what they made is not important. The theatre feels important, feels real, feels _alive._

The doors open, and Soonyoung is the first to stride in, looking half like he wants to hoist Junhui up into a piggyback ride, but beams wide instead. They fill a whole row once they’re all seated, Mingyu and Minghao in the middle, and Mingyu tilts his head up, breathes in deep, listens to the hum of students and teachers and audience members. He looks around, sees Wheein’s head pop out from behind the curtain for a brief second, and her face looks anxious and content all at once.

He knows the feeling.

The house lights go down, and Mingyu lets his fingertips dance softly with Minghao’s on their shared armrest, and he feels good. The music cue hits for the first scene, and under cover of darkness, he feels Minghao turn and press a kiss to his shoulder.

His hand tightens over Minghao’s when their scene starts, and Mingyu looks up and down the aisle at their friends.

Seokmin is leaning forward in his seat, eyes brightly raking over every inch of the stage, and Seungkwan has his face in his hands, lips parted with fascination. Chan’s legs are crossed, but he’s unblinking, hand clutching his program. Junhui looks back, catches Mingyu’s eye, and smiles wryly. Soonyoung looks like he’s about to cry. Mingyu’s heart feels full.

Intermission feels like a blur. Shell-shocked, like everything is happening around Mingyu, happening to him instead of with him. Minghao’s hand on the small of his back anchors him.

The second act goes much the same way.

When the house lights come back up, Wheein takes a bow after Sana, the rest of the cast gesturing to her proudly, and she bursts into tears. Mingyu leaps to his feet, cheering loudly, and it’s lost in the din of her standing ovation, Soonyoung and Seokmin whooping on either side of him, and Wheein laughs into the crowd despite her overwhelmed tears.

“Thank you,” she’s saying to the whole house, and Minghao and Mingyu bow deeply where they stand, two rows from the front. She blows them a kiss, taking the hands of the cast members beside her, and bows again and again until the cast hands her flowers and tugs her backstage.

“Oh, Mingyu, you’ve lured us here under false pretenses,” Seungkwan says, tone teasing as they file out of the theater.

“What do you mean?” Mingyu says warily, watching a smirk grow over Seungkwan’s face.

“You must not have done anything at all, because that was beautiful,” he says.

Mingyu smacks his arm lightly. “You’re such a brat,” he laughs.

Seungkwan rests a fond hand at the back of Mingyu’s neck for a moment, placating, adding, “Minghao-hyung, you’re so talented. It really was something to behold.”

“Oh, right, _he’s_ your hyung tonight,” Mingyu mutters affectionately, and Minghao grins.

“Thank you,” Minghao beams, and so too does Seungkwan. And Mingyu can’t find it in him to be annoyed.

 

•

 

It’s weird to be on the other side of the computer now, to watch Minghao tug his hands deeper into the arms of his sweater until only his fingertips peek out. To see him queue up the queries he wants to answer, to hand him his iced coffee and see him beam up at Mingyu gratefully, to bite his lip when he shifts the framing on the webcam to crop his head out. Mingyu’s chest feels full and eager, a potent combination of the way he felt watching The8 months ago and the way he feels when he looks at Minghao looking back at him now.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Minghao says.

“Like what?” Mingyu says innocently.

“Like I’m…” At a loss for words, Minghao shrugs and blushes a little. But Mingyu gets it.

“Of course I’m looking at you like this. I… I fell for you, like this,” Mingyu says, stilted and stuttered, and Minghao looks up at him from where he sits on the floor, sweater and jeans, and the look in his eyes makes Mingyu tighten the strings on his hoodie shyly, despite the way it’s all he’s wearing besides his briefs.

Minghao breathes, “Oh,” but can’t fight the smile smoothing over his face like cake batter in a pan, slow and sweet.

“Of course I had a tiny crush on The8,” Mingyu mutters. “It was you.”

“Stop,” Minghao giggles, and even though the stream hasn’t started and he’s already framed his head out, he tilts his laptop screen even lower so his blush doesn’t show.

It’s so cute. Mingyu pulls his hood low on his face, overwhelmed, and it makes Minghao laugh again, softer as the stream connects.

“Hi, everyone! It’s The8!”

Minghao is good at this, as always, goes into physical affection and body language this time, helping someone with the pen name “Dodo” (“Like the bird? That’s sweet!”) figure out how to show someone they’re close with that they’re ready for the next step.

And Mingyu is respectful and professional. Well, for the most part.

“So, Dodo, don’t get your hopes too high, but it sounds like you’re practically dating already, and you’ve had sex, it’s just merging the way you care for each other and the way you feel together into one clear relationship,” Minghao is saying.

It’s not supposed to be sexy, Mingyu’s sure, but listening to Minghao be so matter-of-fact and so romantic in the same breath is kind of doing something for him.

Mingyu winks at Minghao, whose giggle might never get old. He licks his lips and watches Minghao’s ears go pink, voice catching on the last piece of advice, and leans over the end of Minghao’s bed to kiss him just offscreen, syrup-slow. Minghao sighs and melts into it a little, until Mingyu slides his lips over his jaw to whisper, “You might want to end the broadcast,” nipping at his earlobe.

Minghao’s eyes darken a little, but he manages to squeak out a quick, “Uh! Bye, everyone!” and Mingyu slams his laptop shut, crawling over Minghao properly. “I can’t believe you!” Minghao says indignantly, his hand sliding down the broadness of Mingyu’s back to get a handful of his ass in his underwear.

Mingyu laughs. “Is it a crime to want to kiss you?”

“Well, it sounds sweet when you put it that way,” Minghao says, exhaling sharply and letting Mingyu kiss his neck under his ear. His skin is warm, still flushed with embarrassment, and a tingle licks down Mingyu’s spine. Minghao adds, voice strained, “But I know better.”

“Oh, you _know_ better,” Mingyu says, and pulls back a little to look at Minghao. He likes when they get like this, a little bickery, a little push-and-pull. Mingyu likes riling Minghao up. And Minghao’s eyes flicker back and forth to the laptop an arm’s length away, and Mingyu gets an idea.

He reaches down and cups Minghao through his acid-wash The8 jeans, and lets his voice drop. “Did you want them to see?”

A strangled whine is let loose at that. _Bingo._

Mingyu sucks marks into Minghao’s neck, feeling Minghao unlock his elbows and start to lean back fully onto the floor. He’s tilting his head back, meat of his neck exposed, pinks and reds like a sunset blushing up the side. They contrast prettily against the busy turquoise of his sweater, and Mingyu likes the way that just looking at it makes his stomach twist in a little pleased way.

“You wanted them to watch me mark you up? You love it?” Mingyu murmurs, and Minghao turns his shell-pink face into the fluffy rug, shy and cute. The way he wriggles his hips under the heel of Mingyu’s palm and bites his lip is positive.

“You _know_ I do, God, I already have to wear all my turtlenecks all the time with the state of my fucking neck,” Minghao says, voice muffled a little against the thick pile of the rug. “I have to say I’m just cold!”

“It’s winter. And you _are_ always cold, Hao,” Mingyu laughs, unzipping Minghao’s jeans. Practiced, Minghao lifts his hips to let Mingyu slide them all the way off, jeans and briefs in one fell swoop.

“Lucky you’re so hot, then,” Minghao says, but it doesn’t have any real bite. He’s being a little sarcastic, quippy with overeagerness as his dick responds to Mingyu’s hand, and Mingyu loves it. He licks to soothe the sharp tingle of his bites along Minghao’s neck and to keep his mouth busy so he doesn’t say anything too embarrassing.

Minghao tugs on the raw bottom hem of the cropped hoodie Mingyu has on, a silent request, and Mingyu pulls it off by the back of the neck, pushing off his briefs too while he’s at it.

“You wanted them to see me all undressed for you, knowing I’m yours?” He’s being showy, biting his lip and fluttering his eyelashes, and Minghao laughs even as his eyes darken, giggling and leaning up to kiss him in earnest.

“You’re so beautiful,” Minghao sighs, and it makes Mingyu’s heart stutter.

Even when Minghao is joking there’s a sincerity to him, Mingyu knows, just thinly veiled where, at the right angle, he can play it like he doesn’t want it so much. It’s the perfectionism, probably, and the romantic heart that is so big and good that Mingyu can’t believe he gets a piece, and the way Minghao lets his feelings out like a rush of water from a broken dam. Mingyu can’t front for anything, always saying exactly what he means because he can’t not ask for what he wants, sometimes.

He reaches for Minghao’s lube in the container under his bed and presses it into Minghao’s hand, who groans but makes quick work of slicking up a finger and pressing into Mingyu, laying him back on the soft rug and working him open. Mingyu’s hips cant up and drop back to meet Minghao’s fingers, and he sighs when Minghao slides a second one in beside the first.

He always handles Mingyu with care, and it’s one of Mingyu’s favorite things about him. The way he’s so thoughtful about _everything_ — about taking pictures of a single flower growing amongst the winter twigs on the way to class, about letting Mingyu eat off his plate after he couldn’t decide what to order, about handling the old dusty design books in the library so the thin pages don’t wrinkle or tear. Minghao is mindful and his hands are sure, and it’s easy for Mingyu to let himself unravel under them because he knows Minghao will be there.

“I love your hands, I love your fingers,” Mingyu pants, Minghao’s fingers curling into him, the taut muscles in his forearm flexing with the effort. Mingyu wants to bite it, get his mouth on it, kiss it, murmur love against it, trail up to where his sweater sleeve is pushed up to nearly his bicep to keep it in a lube-free zone.

“Mingyu!” Minghao blushes at the praise, and Mingyu laughs, half-choking into a strangled moan when Minghao crooks his fingers and brushes against his prostate.

“You can’t be shy when you have fingers inside me!” Mingyu says, affectionate, and Minghao responds with the gentle push of a third finger. It’s good, so good, and Mingyu sees stars, a little, when his eyes open and he sees Minghao’s face, concentrated and adoring the way he only ever dreamed.

“I’m ready, Hao, please.”

Minghao’s lower lip is bite-swollen and his cock is hard, flushed like his neck, and Mingyu wants, wants, wants, watches Minghao tear open a condom and slick himself up, aches with it as Minghao lines himself up.

“You wanted them to know how good you fuck me?” Mingyu says, breathless. He barely has the faculties to tease but the way Minghao’s hand tightens on his hip is well worth it.

“Mingyu!” Minghao laughs again, but as he pushes into Mingyu, Minghao’s face is hungry, ears burning volcanic, letting out pretty sounds as noisy as ever, “Mingyu, your _mouth—”_

“You wanted them — wanted them to watch me fall — _fuck,_ fall apart under you?” Mingyu whimpers, and Minghao’s hand _(perfect beautiful hands)_ twists over Mingyu’s cock, still a little slick with lube, as he grinds insistently into Mingyu, pace relentless. “Fuck,” Mingyu whines, grasping at Minghao’s waist desperately.

It’s unfathomably hot, Minghao’s hips rolling expertly as he fucks into Mingyu, Mingyu splayed out on the soft rug just taking it. Mingyu thinks if he could do just this for the rest of his life he’d be content.

Minghao, as usual, is peppering his face and hair with soft little kisses, punctuating his thrusts with them, murmuring sweetly against Mingyu’s skin like he can’t stop his feelings from bubbling over, and they float out as endearments and praise. It’s downright romantic, and it makes Mingyu’s chest well up with love.

As Minghao hitches one of Mingyu’s knees up slightly, it improves the angle against his prostate and Mingyu’s eyes roll back with a ragged moan. “So beautiful, so good,” Minghao is saying, running his free hand over Mingyu’s bare chest, feather-light touches just to touch. Like he can’t get enough, can’t feel enough, can’t know him well enough. Mingyu knows the feeling, flushing under Minghao’s hands, memorizing the way he holds him close. Even compared to Mingyu’s broadness and stature, Minghao is so lean and so strong, and it’s good, _so good._

“Mingyu, close, please, _please—”_ Minghao cuts himself off with a searing kiss, panting into Mingyu’s mouth.

Their chests press together as Minghao screws his eyes shut, orgasm rocking through him, and Mingyu feels Minghao’s dick pulse with one last grind of his hips. A few tugs on his cock later and he’s gone too, coming between them with a breathless shout, hands gripping Minghao’s shoulders like he’ll drift away.

“Oh, my God,” Mingyu whimpers against Minghao’s neck, wincing a little at the feeling of Minghao pulling out of him.

“Sorry, babe,” Minghao says gently with a kiss to Mingyu’s forehead, tying off the condom and tossing it in the trash can under his desk. Tugging off his sweater to lie atop Mingyu on the floor, he’s sweaty and beautiful and Mingyu feels happy and _thoroughly_ fucked.

He wants it all. All the time.

“Be my boyfriend,” Mingyu says before he can’t say it, and Minghao laughs. Mock-affronted, Mingyu grabs at Minghao’s side and lets his heart feel full of affection, fluttering warmly at the way his hand looks against the edge of Minghao’s stomach. “I mean it!”

“What did you think we were?” Minghao says, and Mingyu opens and closes his mouth a few times. Well, he’s got him there.

Mingyu pouts. “Can’t you just say yes?”

“If I keep indulging you, you’re going to be spoiled,” Minghao murmurs, reaching up to run his clean hand through Mingyu’s hair and brush it off his temples.

“Spoiled could look good on me.”

An image flashes through Mingyu’s mind, a pretty hand on his waist as he glides through a gallery with Minghao, watching Minghao talk art easily with sophisticates and critics and beaming with pride when his pieces sell for millions of won. Or however much art sells for. It comes unbidden, but Mingyu feels warmth in his toes looking at Minghao and feeling the future move toward them.

“I would make a great trophy boyfriend,” Mingyu muses. “Good to show off.”

Minghao hums affirmatively, then pauses. It seems to make him think of something. “Did you really want me to have sex with you in front of everybody?”

Well, no. They couldn’t, really. Definitely not on a webpage linked to by the university, at least. Mingyu knows that and Minghao knows that. But Mingyu shrugs with a grin, saying honestly, “If you fucked me like that I don’t know if I would care where you did it.”

Minghao rolls his eyes and presses a soft kiss against Mingyu’s chest over his heart. “Wow, my boyfriend is so romantic.”

“I’ve been known to be,” Mingyu says coyly.

“You’re cute,” Minghao says, almost shy, and the inside of Mingyu’s body is lychee jelly, soft delicate-white kiss-puckered bonelessness, and he feels so trusting and open and _happy._

 

•

 

The restaurant is packed when they arrive, seven of them somehow piling out of Soonyoung’s car, looking all the group of well-dressed clowns Mingyu feels they are sometimes, and when they walk in Jeonghan and Hansol cheer, much to Mingyu’s embarrassed delight.

“I don’t know how you convinced the staff to reserve a table for this many people on a Saturday night,” Minghao says to the table, pulling Mingyu’s chair out for him.

Jeonghan says, “I’m very persuasive,” and Mingyu is inclined to agree.

He’s learned a lot about Minghao’s roommates as of late; a little more than he really needs to know, maybe. The memory of walking in on Jeonghan on his knees in their common room while Jihoon played a video game is one Mingyu tries very hard to forget.

Extracurricular activities aside, Jihoon kind of _is_ as serious as Mingyu thought he was, which makes each laugh well earned, and Jeonghan is devious as all hell, which always gets Jisoo going — studying political science together means they’re almost too acquainted with debate and getting each other heated.

“I’m just saying, I just think it’s funny how–”

“No, no, no, Shua-yah, _I_ think it’s funny that somehow _my_ wine choices have become a topic of discussion when we all know you convinced Hansol that rosé was half white wine and half red wine,” Jeonghan simpers, punctuating with a dainty bite of salad.

“It’s pink!” Hansol mutters, and Jisoo laughs, looking ever the picture of innocence, though Soonyoung cackles at the exchange. Junhui takes the pointed end of a breadstick cracker and prods his hand with it, and Soonyoung yelps. Junhui gives him a soft look that’s half _poor-sweet-thing_ and half _you-deserved-it_.

Mingyu shovels steak into his mouth and watches Chan pester Wonwoo’s roommate Seungcheol to hack the university database to find information on the theme of the next dance event, which Seungkwan keeps tight under lock and key (though it seems like he’s vibrating trying not to tell everyone). Seungcheol’s eyes are tired, like every other computer science student Mingyu’s met, but his smile is broad and genuine.

“That’s not how computers work! Why would that information even be on the school server when it’s decided by the committee? And anyway, you’d probably be better served trying to crack Kwannie,” Seungcheol is saying, gesturing to him.

Eyes wary, Seungkwan’s face looks a little constipated with effort, and Mingyu swallows and rests his chin on his hands. Might as well try.

“Seungkwannie-yah,” Mingyu says sweetly, batting his eyelashes for effect, “Won’t you tell us, please?”

“‘Please?’ You think that’s all it takes?” Seungkwan scoffs, pursing his lips. “I know all your little games, hyung. I _invented_ those games.”

A foot nudges against Mingyu’s under the table, and when he turns his head he sees the corner of Minghao’s lips quirk up ever so slightly. Mingyu tries to stifle his grin as Minghao reaches out and rests a hand on Seungkwan’s.

“Stop bothering him about it,” Minghao says, voice gentle. “It would be really nice to know, but if he isn’t ready to say, that’s his prerogative.”

And it’s like Mingyu watches in slow motion as Seungkwan’s resolve crumbles brick by brick, and Mingyu distinctly knows the feeling of wanting to do anything for Minghao. Just his presence, and you would lay down your jacket over puddles, lay down your life, a little.

Seokmin’s eyes widen when Seungkwan sighs like he can’t help it, “‘Precious gems.’”

“No! I can’t believe this,” Chan cries.

“Precious gems? You think university students can afford–”

“It’s just a theme! You don’t have to wear a suit made of fucking emeralds, Wonwoo-hyung–”

“If Wonwoo-hyung _doesn’t_ wear a suit made of emeralds it’s not worth the price of admission!” Seokmin declares.

Mingyu’s hand rests on Minghao’s chair back, and when Minghao settles back against it he gives Mingyu a small smile, blinking up at him with fondness. His hand on Seungkwan’s withdraws so he can trace abstractly over Mingyu’s knee, nonsense shapes meaning _This is fun_ and _I like you,_ and despite the tickle of it Mingyu smiles back.

 

•

 

_The 8 Signs of Love: [REST. ]_

__  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you can guess who i mean “dodo” to be i’ll write you a fic, or something! ya girl was vague
> 
> uhhh i have a lot of feelings about this being over! wow!!!
> 
> i want to thank YOU so much for reading, and extend an adoring thank you to lianne, peyton, and chris for supporting me every step of the way with this one. i appreciate you!
> 
> catch me on [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/jeongyeunnie/) and [curiouscat](http://www.curiouscat.me/pixiepower/)!


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